This Is Your Strife
by Lambent Flame
Summary: Smithers recalls his turbulent childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, from the beginning of his love affair with Malibu Stacy to his first boyfriend, his lavender marriage, and his enduring infatuation with Springfield's infamous energy mogul Monty Burns.
1. Chapter 1

**This is Your Strife**

 **Chapter One**

"Welcome back, Waylon," said Grady, setting some wine coolers on Smithers' kitchen countertop. "So, how was Capital City?"

Stuart said, "Did you see the new aquarium?"

"No, I was too engrossed in the convention events. This year, they're coming out with a Safari Stacy. Oh! And you should've seen the new Malibu Stacy Dream Houses! They're fully customizable, and you can move the rooms around and the furniture, too."

"I'll never understand your fixation on that doll," Stuart said.

"Well, it started a long time ago..."

* * *

"It's time for recess, children. Put your supplies back into the craft bins and you can go," said Miss Mulligan, brushing her shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. The children began putting things away, glitter and buttons strewn across the tables. Little Waylon Smithers, all of seven years old, found himself drawn to a shiny, smooth red ribbon. He cut a length of ribbon off the roll and stuffed it into one of his shorts pockets.

As he headed out to the playground, he beamed, clear in his mind what he was going to do. He understood his parents wouldn't approve, having repeatedly denied his requests for pretty, frilly clothes and hair accessories and made obvious their disapproval of his clothing preferences. _This is my chance,_ he thought, taking the ribbon from his pocket and heading to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror for guidance, he folded the ribbon over a lock of his hair and proceeded to tie it into a bow. He stood there for a minute, admiring himself from a couple of different angles. It looked so pretty! Why would this make his parents so upset?

He left the bathroom grinning. When he spotted a little blond-haired girl on the playground, he ran up to her, saying, "Mary! Mary! Look!"

She giggled. "You have a ribbon in your hair!"

"I know, isn't it pretty?"

"Yeah, you look pretty."

"Thanks! You're pretty, too."

The girl beside her, Linda, said, "Only girls wear bows!"

"No... I'm wearing one and I'm a boy."

"Well, if you're gonna be a girl, do you wanna play house with us?"

"Sure!" he said. When the bell rang, they adjourned the game and went to line up. They filed into two different lines, one for girls and one for boys. Waylon stood in line with the other boys as always. The boys around him voiced discontent and lightly pushed him out of line and did so again when he pushed his way back into line. "Hey, what gives?"

"Go to the girls' line, _girl_!" said Tom.

Waylon protested, "But I'm a boy."

Gary said, "Boys don't wear ribbons in their hair. That's a girl thing."

They pushed him out of line again and he gave up on trying to muscle his way back in and just stood between the two lines. When Miss Mulligan arrived to count them and let them into the classroom, she said, "Waylon, why aren't you in line?"

He said, "They wouldn't let me be in the boys' line."

"Why is that?" she asked the boys.

"Because he's a girl!" they said with a sneer of disgust.

"That's not very nice," she said. "Apologize to him and let him back in line."

They did so reluctantly. "Thanks, Miss Mulligan," said Waylon as he walked back into line and she caught a glimpse of his hair ribbon.

"Although you are asking for it," she mumbled under her breath.

Each day at the closing bell, he would unravel his ribbon and put it in his pocket. As his mother walked him home from school one November afternoon, he said, "Mommy, I decided what I want for Christmas this year."

"You've been a very good boy this year, so I'm sure Santa will bring you whatever you want."

"I want a Malibu Stacy doll!" he said excitedly. Seeing the smile fade from his mother's face, he quickly added, "All the other girls have one!"

It was not the persuasive line he'd hoped it would be. "You are not a girl," she said, stern. They walked in uncomfortable silence for a few more seconds. "What would you want with a doll, anyway?"

"I could mix the clothes up to make pretty new outfits, and she could star in musicals to pay for her beach home. I would have so much fun pretending with her!"

"The answer is _no_. And don't you dare mention it to Winton."

 _I bet he would let me have one. That's why Mommy doesn't want me asking him, because she knows he'll say yes._ When his stepfather arrived home, Waylon promptly ran up to him, saying, "I'm so glad you're home! Can I have a Malibu Stacy doll for Christmas? I've been really good this year and I'll be even more good next year, promise!" His mother's face fell.

"Waylon, do you want to be a sissy?"

This confused him. He knew a sissy was a bad thing to be, but he thought it meant you were weak and cowardly. He didn't see what it had to do with dolls. "No, but –"

"Well, you sure as hell act like you want to be one. I swear, if you keep acting this way, we'll have to take you to a psychiatrist."

He quaked, thinking it was just a short step from seeing a psychiatrist to being locked for life in a mental hospital. "What way? What am I doing wrong?" Tears welled in his eyes. He was always failing his parents in one way or another despite being an extremely well-behaved kid. But no matter how hard he tried to please them, he always came up short. The worst punishment to him, far worse than getting spanked with a belt, was to see his parents disappointed in him. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong, and I'll fix it."

"You've got to stop liking this girl stuff, Waylon. I'm getting increasingly worried you'll end up queer."

He didn't know what he meant by "queer," but he knew that whatever it was, he was it.


	2. Chapter 2

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Two**

He stopped wearing the ribbon in his hair for the next few months as he tried to get over his longing for Malibu Stacy, but his desire only intensified. The first week back to school after Christmas, he glumly walked to the group of girls he normally played with, dreading the animated discussion of all their great new Malibu Stacy dolls and accessories that he knew was sure to come.

"I got a Malibu Stacy Dream House! It has an elevator and everything!" said Evelyn.

"I got a Malibu Stacy convertible! The top actually goes over her head!" said Noreen.

"I just got clothes for my Malibu Stacy," said Linda. Waylon shot her an envious look. "What did you get, Waylon?"

"I just got army men, trucks, and clothes," he lamented. "The only thing I liked was the puzzle I got. It has a picture of a lake, and puzzles are pretty fun. But it's not Malibu Stacy." They perfunctorily commiserated with them, then resumed their excited discussion about the Malibu Stacy products they had. "I'm going to take a walk today, okay?" he said, turning to leave so he could focus on something besides his envy.

As he walked around the playground, he saw a girl sitting in the mud with what appeared to be a naked doll. He approached, then his jaw dropped in horror when he got close enough to see it was a Malibu Stacy doll with mud in her hair! "Stop!" he screamed as he ran to her. "What are you doing? You're ruining her hair!"

"I don't care. I didn't want a stupid doll, anyway."

It pained him to see such a fine doll being ruined in the hands of someone who didn't even want it. "How could you not want her? Malibu Stacy is all I've ever wanted for this whole year! She has so many nice clothes, and you can tie her hair up in different styles, and have her go around being a movie star."

"Sounds like you'd be a lot happier with it than me. Here," she said, handing him the doll. "It's yours."

Waylon's eyes grew big, and his mouth gradually opened in an awed smile. He hugged her. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"No problem, uh... what's your name?"

"Waylon. And yours?"

"Patricia. But everyone calls me Patty."

"I'm going to go to the bathroom to clean her hair, but I'll be right back. I've got to give you something." He rushed off to the bathroom where he rinsed her hair in warm water and washed the mud away, then patted the head dry with paper towels. He went to the outside of his classroom where his backpack was, put away his Malibu Stacy, and retrieved his army men and a couple of Cigarbox trucks before returning to the playground where Patty was. "This is all I have," he said, taking the army men and toy trucks out of his pockets. "Hopefully you'll like them better than I do."

"Oh, cool!" she said. "We don't have any of these at my house. I've always wanted some army men."

"Um, just curious, but where are Malibu Stacy's clothes?"

"Oh, in my pocket," she said, wiping her hands before reaching in and taking them out to show him.

It was a beautiful blue ball gown with sequins. It absolutely mesmerized Waylon, who took it delicately into his own hands, treating it with reverence. "Wow, thank you so much! I'll never forget this."

"It also came with this," she said, pulling a small, shiny ring-like thing out of her pocket. "It's a tiara. You put it on her head."

He took it between his fingers, then hovered it over his own head, imagining himself wearing a full-sized tiara before putting it and the dress in his pocket. "Wow. I mean, really, wow! This is the nicest thing anyone has done for me."

"It's nothing. I'm sure your parents would never buy you a Malibu Stacy just like mine would never buy me army men."

"Why do parents have such stupid random rules like that? It makes no sense."

"Yeah, it's stupid. Hey, do you wanna go climb that tree? Nobody's on it right now."

"Sure. Sounds fun!" They both ran to the tree and climbed up it.

"It's nice to be able to look down on them," she said.

"Yeah. I mean, the other boys call me a girl and won't let me play with them. Not that I even like most of the games they play, but it'd be nice if they invited me. But they haven't, not since I wore my ribbon."

"But you stopped wearing it so they wouldn't make fun?"

"No. I stopped wearing it because my parents don't want me to be queer, whatever that means. But I can't help but like pretty bows, no matter how hard I try not to."

"Do you have it on you?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see." He took it out and tied it up in his hair just like he used to. "It looks cute on you. Better than I look in a bow."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah. I do."

When they returned to class, he hid the dress and tiara in his backpack before lining up. As soon as he got home, he furtively got a needle and a spool of black thread from his mother's sewing drawer and hid them in his pocket until he went to his room to do his homework. He took out scissors from his desk drawer and got a pair of shorts he had outgrown from his closet. He cut out the pocket and another cloth flap, threaded the needle, and turned his backpack inside out. He began sewing the pocket to the inside, listening carefully and hiding his backpack in a drawer and sticking his head in a book every time he heard approaching footsteps. When finally he had finished, he had a nice, secret pouch to stash his Malibu Stacy until recess at school, when he could play with the girls and their Malibu Stacys.

The next morning, when the recess bell rang, Waylon jumped out of his seat before the teacher finished dismissing them, got his Malibu Stacy and the tiara out of his backpack, and ran to the tree where he and the other girls normally gathered and waited there, squirming impatiently until the others arrived.

As Mary and Noreen approached, he shouted out, "Look what I have! Look what I have!"

"Yay! Now you can play Malibu Stacy with us!" said Mary.

"It's such a beautiful dress she's wearing, too!" said Noreen.

He beamed. "Don't you dream about living like Malibu Stacy? Driving a pink convertible through Malibu, being pretty and having such pretty clothes..."

"It would be pretty fun," said Noreen. As the other girls filtered through and brought out their dolls, Waylon noticed that they all had multiple outfits, while he had just the one, as magnificent as it was. "Hey, Linda, I'll trade you this shirt if you give me that skirt."

"Okay," she said, and they exchanged the doll clothes. An idea brewed in Waylon's head.

After school, he searched under couch cushions and on table tops for loose change. "Mom, I'm going to ride my bike to the park."

"Have fun," she said, "and be back before dinner!"

He pedaled his way to the park, then turned at the corner, heading for a grocery store. At the front of the store, it had capsule vending machines full of cheap trinkets like army men, football helmets, and mood rings encased in rounded plastic capsules. He bought a handful of five-cent fake gems, put them away in his secret backpack pouch, then rode back to the park where he biked for awhile, imagining the things he would do with them.

The next day at school, during craft time, he got a bottle of glue, some ribbons of different colors and textures, velcro, and buttons. He then took out his trinkets and his Malibu Stacy doll as well as some small hair clips he'd brought from home and a needle and thread. He affixed fake plastic gems to the hair clips and sewed shiny green, blue, and red buttons to lengths of ribbon and sewed velcro to both ends of the ribbons. By recess, he had a dozen belts and hair clips to accessorize Malibu Stacy.

On the playground, the girls crowded around to see what he had as he modeled different items on his doll. "This one has a green gem on a shiny purple ribbon. It can be used as a belt or a sash, like this," he said, demonstrating each use.

"Oh, I want one of those!" said Mary, followed by a chorus of girls saying they wanted some, too.

Linda said, "I'll give you this red dress for a hair clip and sash."

"Deal," he said. Other girls made similar offers, and he quickly amassed a wardrobe of dresses, shirts, skirts, shorts, and a pair of pink high heel shoes. To tie back the hair of his own doll in different ways, he used the shiny red ribbon he had previously used in his own hair.

After a few weeks, he had traded with all the girls who brought their doll clothes to school. His Malibu Stacy wardrobe was pretty extensive considering just a week earlier, he didn't even have the doll, so he was pretty content with the amount and variety of clothes and accessories. Still, his foray into entrepreneurship enticed him with the revelation that he could make things for Malibu Stacy that were good, that people would like.

He spent the next few days daydreaming about making outfits for Malibu Stacy and planning where to source the materials from without arousing the suspicions of his parents. He got fabric swatches and some lace from a sample kit his mother had in her sewing drawer and ribbons and velcro from school. He took care to finely stitch them so they would look good, and in the ensuing weeks, he fashioned a pink skirt and a strapless green dress with a form-fitting knee-length hemline with white lace around the waist and the hem. He took pride in what he had accomplished and wished desperately that he could show it to his parents.

He was thrilled to show it to the girls at school. Their reactions didn't disappoint. They fawned over him for making a dress himself. "It's too bad that when recess ends, you'll just put her away in your bag," said Noreen.

"I know, it stinks. But I can only do girl things during recess. At home, I have to act like a boy."

"That's awful."

"Tell me about it."

That Friday, when his parents picked him up from school, the car was loaded up with all they needed to go straight to a local campground for a weekend camping trip. "I'm so excited!" said Waylon. "Camping is so much fun! We can tell ghost stories, and toast marshmallows, and, and hike around the lake, and –"

"Can't wait, can you, kiddo?" said Winton, reaching back to rub the top of his head, mussing his hair. "We'll have a great time." With that, he commenced the short drive to the campground.

After they set their tent up, they proceeded to make a fire, tell stories around it, and toast marshmallows. "Can we go on a hike first thing in the morning? And then we can go fishing! That'll be lots of fun, won't it?"

"Yes, Waylon," his stepfather said. "Very fun, indeed."

"I'm going to get some milk from the cooler!" he said and headed behind the tent to get a bottle of milk.

While he was at the cooler, he overheard his mother say, "See, I told you he's not queer. That doll stuff was just a phase, like I told you. He's a regular boy."

"Well, I sure hope you're right."

Waylon stopped dead in his tracks. He knew damn well that dolls were not a passing interest of his. He had hoped that eventually his parents would soften to the idea of him playing with dolls and he could then stop hiding it, but that idea vanished in that instant. _As long as I like dolls, I'm queer, and I've failed my parents._ He started to cry but quickly reined it in, not wanting them to find out that he was such an unlikable person. As long as he pretended, they would act like they loved him, and they wouldn't have to know that deep down they thought he was a disappointment. He just had to preserve the illusion so they could go on pretending they were a happy family. He got a bottle of milk and walked back to them, smiling. "We're gonna have lots of fun tomorrow – aren't we?"


	3. Chapter 3

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Three**

The fourth of July had arrived before they knew it, and little Waylon ran around the backyard, excitedly talking about the fireworks show they were going to see that evening, as his stepfather prepared the grill and his mother set dishes of food to be cooked on the picnic table.

"And then – and then there'll be big booming sounds when they go off in the sky, and the colors will spread out like sparks and sparkle in the night sky, and it'll be really loud and spectacular!"

"Waylon, Waylon," said Winton. "Slow down there, kiddo. Why don't you sit down and read for awhile?"

"Okay," he said, running into the house and grabbing his backpack, then running back into the yard, where he sat beneath the shade of their peach tree and pulled a book out of his backpack, _The Giving Tree_. He read through it, then closed the book and stared up at the leaves and branches of the tree he sat at. "I feel sorry for the tree," he said, then read it again. "I wouldn't cut you down to a stump." He patted the roots protruding from the soil. He stood and ran with his backpack to his mother. "Mommy! Read this book to me."

"I'm a little busy right now. Maybe later." She plated some of the cooked food. "Why don't you read something different for now? You have another book in there, don't you?" She took his bag and reached inside, searching for a book.

"No!" he cried, yanking the bag away.

"That's not nice," she said, taking it back. "I'm sure you have another book in here." She pulled out James and the Giant Peach.

"I just finished reading that one, though," he said, "but I'd like to read it again!" he added, still anxious to get his backpack back. "Can I have my backpack now, please?"

"You said the magic word," she said, handing it to him. However, as he took it, he fumbled with it and it flipped upside down, and a pink plastic shoe fell onto the ground before his feet. Feeling as exposed as if he were wearing only his underwear, he vacillated between grabbing it as fast as he could and ignoring it, hoping that no one would notice it if he didn't draw attention to it. As he tried to decide, his mother bent forward, said, "What's this?" and picked it up. "It looks like a little plastic... oh." She closed her hand over it, but Winton had seen it as he placed some newly cooked hamburger patties onto the table.

"A little plastic what?" said Winton.

"Nothing," said his mother.

"Whatever you're hiding, Hattie, give it here." She sighed and dropped it into his hand. He crouched down to be eye level with Waylon. "Where did you get this?" He held it between his thumb and index finger.

"A girl at school dropped it and I have it for safekeeping until I see her again when school starts," he said cooly, casually, and convincingly, not missing a beat in rattling off the lie he had fabricated on the spot.

"Oh. Okay." He gave it back to Waylon, who reached into his backpack to put it in the secret pocket with his Malibu Stacy. As he was putting the shoe back, he lost his grip of the bag and it fell to the ground, his Malibu Stacy sliding out. His mother's jaw dropped as Winton turned to see. "Is that doll just for safekeeping, too?"

"A girl at school gave it to me; it's mine!" he said, clutching it possessively to his chest.

"Give it to me, Waylon."

"No!"

"Do you want a spanking?"

"Spank me all you want; I'm not giving it up!"

"As the man of this house, it's my job to teach you to be a man, and I'll be damned if I fail you." He went to the shed and dragged out a wood chipper, then turned it on. "Throw it in."

Waylon cried, screeching, "No! You can't make me!"

"I said, 'Throw it in.'"

"No!" He stomped his foot.

"All right, then," he said, grabbing the doll out of his hand. Waylon watched as he dropped it in and it shredded into plastic confetti, not altogether unlike a burst of fireworks.

"No..." He sobbed. "I hate you!" He ran into the house and locked himself in his room. He looked out his bedroom window at his parents arguing.

"I understand why you took it from him, but did you have to be so cruel?"

"Going soft on him will only make things worse."

Waylon pulled the shades. If only one of the peaches in their yard would become giant and carry him away on a fantastic adventure.

* * *

"What should we play?" asked Linda, standing beside Waylon on the veranda of her house.

"We can play Malibu Stacy."

"We've played Malibu Stacy for two hours. I want to do something different."

"Like what?"

"We can play princess. I'll wear a tiara, and you can be my prince."

"Oh, okay."

"Great! I've got a lot of fab dress-up stuff in a trunk." They went to her room, and she dug through the trunk, pulling out dresses and costume jewelry and tossing them on the floor. She held up a sparkling silver bow tie. "You can wear this."

"A bow tie? I don't know, it doesn't really seem 'me'."

"What do you want to wear, then?"

"Actually, I was thinking... well, I was thinking it might be fun if I were the princess and you were my prince."

"Okay. Then you'll wear this," she said, holding up a summery blue dress.

Waylon pulled out a satiny sequined cape. "And this one, too!" As he got dressed into the clothes, she put on her father's vest, suit jacket, and bow tie. "How do I look?" he said, emerging from the bathroom.

"Pretty." He smiled. "Oh, wait!" She ran to the costume chest and pulled out a tiara. She placed it on his head and said, "There. Now you're a princess."

"Since you're my prince charming now, we should have a wedding."

"Okay. I mean, yes, m'lady." She offered her arm out. "Shall we walk down the aisle together?"

"Sure! But let's go outside. It's nice and sunny out." They went out into the backyard and stood beside a tree swing amid butterflies and bees fluttering flower to flower. They held hands, and Waylon said, "I take Prince Linda to be my lawfully wedded husband."

She said, "And I take Princess Waylon to be my lawfully wedded wife."

He kissed her hand. "Now we're married. I'm going to go get ready for the ball tonight," he said, approaching the door.

"Wait," she said, bending down to the grass and picking a flower. "You should wear a corsage," she said, walking up to him and tying the stem around a loop of lace.

"Aw, thanks. It's beautiful!" he said, enthusiastically leaning his nose in to smell it. As he did so, a bee emerged from inside and stung his nose. "Ow! A bee stung me!"

"Oh, no! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just really itchy," he said, scratching between his cheek and nose.

"I'll go inside and get some tweezers to take out the stinger," she said, going inside. When she stepped back outside with tweezers in hand, she gasped. Waylon's nose had swollen to twice its size and he was struggling to breathe. "Oh my God!" She ran inside. "Mom! Call 9-1-1!"

* * *

Hattie Smithers and her husband Winton entered the Emergency Department lobby. They passed a woman sitting in one of the chairs, turning to the man beside her and saying, "Did you see that poor little girl they brought in on the stretcher? They said she was having an allergic reaction to a bee sting! Imagine!"

Winton said, "A little _girl_? They'd better not be referring to –"

Turning to the registration desk, Hattie said, "Please, show me where my Waylon is. Oh, God, let him be okay..."

"Of course. He's in room 11-A, just turn right down that hall, and it'll be the last room on the left."

"Thank you," she said in hurried and hushed voice as she curtly turned in a quick stride for his room, Winton following a few steps behind. When she got to the doorway, she rushed inside and past the doctor to grasp his hand, nudging the IV line going into his wrist. "Oh my God, honey, are you all right?" She pressed her face against his chest and wept.

"I'm okay, mom," he said weakly.

"Waylon, why are you wearing a dress?" asked Winton sternly as he approached.

"I was playing princess –"

"I thought I set you straight."

"Winton, don't do this now. For God's sake, he almost died!"

"And if he had? Would you want him to die in a dress, suffer that indignity?"

"If he had died, I'd be too busy crying to notice _what_ he was wearing!" She glared at him in disgust. "Besides, you're reading too much into this. He was just playing, being a kid – right, Waylon?"

"Yes, mommy."

She ran her hand through his hair and kissed his forehead. "I'm so glad you're here."

Winton held his hand and said, "Hang in there, kiddo. You'll be all right."

* * *

"Waylon, come to the living room," said Winton, sitting beside Hattie on a sofa. "We need to talk to you."

He walked into the living room from the kitchen, a glass of milk in his hand and the characteristic mustache on his lip. "Yes?"

"Your mother and I have discussed it, and we think it's best you start seeing a psychiatrist."

"What? But I'm not crazy! Why would you think I need a psychiatrist?"

"Psychiatrists don't just treat raving lunatics," said Hattie. "They also help people adjust to difficult situations and live the best lives they can."

"But why...?"

"Do you feel sad you never knew your father?"

"I do now..."

"Honey, a psychiatrist can help you understand and deal with those feelings. So are you willing to give it a try?"

"Promise you won't let them lock me up?"

"Of course we won't let them lock you up. It'll only be an hour a week."

"Okay. I'll give it a try."

"Good boy." She hugged him, and Winton tousled his hair.

* * *

"After talking with your son, I believe young Waylon is reacting to the lack of a father figure in his formative years. He unconsciously seeks the attention of his father and so assumes feminine trappings in a vain hope of enticing him, solidifying a connection. It is good you brought him here this early; without early intervention, a deviate sexuality is unlikely to be corrected with therapy."

"What can we do to help him?" asked Hattie.

"Well, first of all, it is imperative you forbid him to play with girls' things. Whenever he engages in feminine play or mannerisms, you must remove privileges. I suggest you employ a token system. You start with this set of tokens," he said, opening a box on his desk to reveal a set of plastic poker chips. "Whenever he behaves in a masculine fashion, give him a token. Whenever he behaves in a feminine fashion, take one away. Once he accumulates five tokens, ten tokens, twenty – reward him commensurately. If he loses as many tokens, punish him."

"That's all?" said Winton. "I didn't think it would be so simple."

"Of course, I'll be talking with him weekly to help him work through the complex psychological processes underlying his behavior. But when it comes to strictly modifying behavior, a simple scheme of reinforcement and punishment is most effective."

"I don't know," said Hattie. "Giving and taking away tokens for compliance? He's my son, not a circus animal."

"Mrs. Smithers, I assure you – this is his best chance at living a normal life. At blending in with his peers. At not being an outcast. At having a fulfilling relationship. What mother wouldn't want that for her child?" He slid the clipboard with the consent form across the desk to her. She grasped the pen attached via a metal beaded chain and signed, then passed it to Winton to sign.


	4. Chapter 4

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Four**

It was a typical Saturday afternoon, and Hattie Smithers was catching up on vacuuming while that night's meatloaf cooked in the oven, Waylon played in the yard, and Winton scanned the classifieds in his den, having been recently sacked, a casualty of corporate downsizing.

The doorbell rang.

"Coming!" called Hattie, shutting off the vacuum cleaner. She dusted her hands off on her apron and opened the door, her cheerful yet weary demeanor stiffening as she issued a cold and curt greeting. "Mr. Burns."

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," said the sexagenarian mogul, hair combed over in a vain attempt to conceal his bald spot.

"You came to work my son to death, too?" As he opened his mouth to respond, she continued, "I know you had something to do with it. I don't know how, but I don't buy for a second that he would take off without warning to go on an expedition while I was ill in the hospital."

"Of course he would never do such a thing – for anyone except for me." He glanced at his feet, then looked straight and seriously into her eyes. "Now, let's get down to business."

"I don't have any business with you."

"That will change momentarily." He moved to slip past her across the threshold. "Now, allow me to –"

She gripped the door frame quickly, strongly. "No, Monty, I don't think so. I don't like you, and I don't want you anywhere near my son. You're a heartless bastard and I have no idea what quality Waylon ever saw in you as admirable."

"And I have no idea why Waylon chose to marry an obdurate shrew like you, but that's neither here nor there. I have a proposition you can't refuse."

"I can and I shall." She prepared to slam the door shut.

"Don't be stupid," he said, putting his arm through. "You'd have to be to turn down ten thousand dollars."

Biting the tip of her tongue slightly, her grip on the door relented, and she reluctantly swung it open. "Come inside, Mr. Burns."

He sat on a yellow-green floral print armchair, and she sat in an identical chair adjacent and askew to it. "When I set up a chair at Springfield University, it was with the express purpose of appointing Waylon Senior to become the university's first Montgomery Burns Professor of Nuclear Physics. And so he enjoyed that appointment for a decade and provided you with a comfortable living. Since he has passed, the interest on my donation has been going to pay the salary of some bozo kraut they hired to replace him.

"As it turns out, I can't funnel the money directly from them to you – apparently, there are laws against revoking donations. However, during my investigation of the matter, I discovered some documents on file from his time working for the Manhattan Project. It's a classified monetary settlement based on an incident at Los Alamos where he was overexposed to gamma radiation – a small enough dose that he didn't become seriously ill, but enough to greatly increase his risk for cancer.

"He sadly perished before he could deposit the check. I found it in an old file drawer of his at the plant. And it will be yours – if you grant me one request."

"That money is rightfully mine. It shouldn't be contingent on me jumping through any arbitrary hoops you hold up for me."

"Shouldn't be, but is. You must fulfill my request before I relinquish the check. And my request is this – give me his private diary."

"What worth could that possibly be to you?"

"That is for me to know and for you to keep your nose to yourself. Give me the book and the money is yours."

"He has dirt on you, doesn't he? That's why you're so eager to get it."

"The reason is unimportant."

"Oh, is it? Well, you're in deep shit this time, Monty –"

" _Mister_ Burns."

"–because I'm not giving it to you, _Monty_. Not for ten thousand dollars – not for ten _million_ dollars!"

"How could you turn down such an irresistible offer?"

"Because I want to see you fry for whatever it is you've done this time. Nobody even bothered to investigate my husband's disappearance; they just took your word for it. But I know it's your fault; I know in my heart you're the one responsible. If you won't fry for that, then at least you'll fry for something else!"

"Mrs. Smithers, please be reasonable. Surely we can agree –"

"Give me a call when you're being strapped into the electric chair. I want front row seats."

Waylon Junior came inside, dragging the wheels of a toy car across the walls as he scampered down the hall. He bumped up against Winton, who had just emerged from the den where he'd sequestered himself for the better part of the week, spilling the cold coffee that had been in Winton's cup all over the front of his shirt and pants.

"Oops," said Waylon, anxiously tightening his lips. "I'm really sorry! Please, forgive me." He interlocked his fingers in a gesture of prayer.

A flash of pink between Waylon's fingers caught Winton's eye. "What is that?" he said, an eyebrow raised as he pointed to the toy in his hand.

"It's a Cadillac."

"It's pink. Give it here," he said, outstretching his palm.

"But it's a car! A car is a boys' toy, right?"

"Dr. Wexler was very clear. Absolutely nothing girly. _No pink_. Now, give it here." Waylon dropped it into his hand. "That's your fifth chip this week, Waylon."

"No!"

"Yes. You know what that means."

"No! Not the belt! I promise I won't play with it again. Please!" As Winton undid his belt, Waylon cowered and cried into his hands, "I wish I were dead."

Mr. Burns bristled and arose from his seat to go to the hallway and grab the belt out of his hand. "All this fuss over a plaything? Leave the child be."

"Don't interfere, old man; this is none of your business."

"Oh, it's exactly my business if you want the ten thousand dollars I was about to give you." He took the pink car and gave it back to Waylon. "You know, in my day, pink was considered a strong, masculine color for young boys." He affectionately mussed the hair on top of his head, then turned back to Winton. "Whatever compelled you to enact such draconian prescripts for his leisure?"

"They won't let me play with Malibu Stacy dolls, either," he said, hoping Mr. Burns would come to his defense again. "He threw her in a wood chipper! And they make me see a psychiatrist!"

"Dr. Wexler told us it's the best thing we can do for him to lead a normal life," said Mrs. Smithers.

"You make him see a psychiatrist because he plays with dolls? What's next? Trepanation for preferring vanilla to chocolate?"

Arms crossed, Winton said, "I hardly think you're qualified to render an opinion about Waylon's psychological state."

"No. But I am qualified to rescind my offer of financial assistance, which I will do now that I know you're pissing away money so some quack can oversee his amusements. I will grant you the check and forego Waylon Senior's diary provided you halt this nonsense posthaste," he said, taking the box of tokens from a shelf into his hands and tossing them into the garbage. He shook his head. "He would be appalled to see this."

Hattie approached Waylon and got down on one knee. "Waylon, honey, you never have to see Dr. Wexler again." She hugged him tightly.

He smiled and looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Burns approach and slide a check into her apron pocket.

* * *

At Waylon's eleventh birthday party, after unenthusiastically opening presents of army men and toy lizards and not a single Malibu Stacy item, sick of putting on his face of phony appreciation, he excused himself to the kitchen to get a piece of cake. "Waylon, come here," beckoned Mr. Burns from the other side of the refrigerator. "Follow me." He led him up to his bedroom, and there he handed him a present. "Open it."

Waylon did, and his eyes lit up when he saw it was a Malibu Stacy wearing a beautiful sequined gown and tiara, much like the first one he'd owned. "Oh, wow! Thank you, sir!"

He ran his hand through Waylon's hair, mussing it up. "And if they try to take this one away from you, tell them Monty Burns will put _them_ through a wood chipper."

* * *

"So you're obsessed with the Malibu Stacy dolls because they were forbidden," said Stuart.

"I liked them a lot before I ever was told not to play with them. But yes. I always felt ashamed for liking them, because as a boy, I wasn't supposed to like them, just like I wasn't supposed to like other boys. It's only been since I could accept my love of men that I could accept my love of Malibu Stacy."

"It's like one of those short films about coming out."

"Coming out... now that's been a different story altogether."

"That couldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't. Especially since it happened completely by accident."


	5. Chapter 5

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Five**

"Oh, Waylon... don't you want to feel anything else?" said Cheryl, sliding one hand down his cheek and the other down the back of his head, running her fingers through his curly chestnut locks. Sixteen, she wore her inky black hair in a gentle curl. She had considered herself lucky to have landed one of the few boys in school who wasn't so sex-obsessed as to try to coerce her before she was ready. No, he wasn't like the others. He had a sensitive soul, and he treated her like a best friend. A little too much, at times.

"But your hair is so beautiful," he said, running his fingers through again. "I wish I had such smooth, silky hair. I'd never take my hand out of it!"

"You have great hair, too," she said, twirling a lock. True, Waylon was kind of a – no, a total geek. He had no fashion sense, was a social misfit among other boys, and was a bit too serious and studious to ever be considered cool. And he always followed the rules, no matter how much he disliked them. But he was also earnest, funny, respectful, and even handsome, in that quirky, charming way only an outsider could pull off. They had known each other since middle school, but it wasn't until she was a sophomore and he was a senior when she got the courage to ask him out. It wasn't the conventional way, but then, they weren't the most conventional people around, and she had gotten sick of waiting for him. "But I still want to feel more."

Waylon blushed and took one of her hands in his, interlocking their fingers and smiling as he looked into her eyes. "Is this not enough?" He rubbed his thumb around hers and wrapped his other arm around her back, hugging her.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "No. I want more of you."

He pursed his lips. "How much more?"

"I want all of you."

He pulled away from her. "I thought we both agreed we wanted to save ourselves for marriage."

"I don't want to wait that long. We love each other now, right? Our love is so pure; surely there's nothing wrong with us expressing it?"

"I don't know. You're asking a lot of me. You're asking me to turn my back on my faith." So he hadn't actually been attending church more than once a month lately, and he had never been particularly devout. But it was the only acceptable reason he could think of for the stomach-churning dread he felt at the thought of consummating their relationship.

"It's okay, we don't have to. I don't want you to do it if it would violate your faith." She chuckled. "Funny. Usually it's the guy who has to apologize for pressuring the girl." She rested her head on his shoulder again, looking into his eyes. "Still. We hardly even kiss. Do you remember the last time we kissed?"

"We kissed an hour ago."

"But that was just a peck on the cheek. I mean, really kissed."

"Oh, uh..."

"Kiss me, Waylon."

"Okay, Cheryl. You want a kiss, so I'm going to kiss you like I mean it." He put his hands on her shoulders, closed his eyes, and kissed her lips in the most convincing fashion he could muster. "You want to go catch a movie? I've heard good things about Harold and Maude, and Death in Venice is playing at the art theater."

"Death in Venice sounds kind of downbeat. How about Harold and Maude?"

"Sounds great! I'll just get my jacket, and we'll go. And we'll get sodas and popcorn – my treat, of course."

A few hours later, they walked out into the theater lobby, Cheryl holding his hand and looking doe-eyed at him. "It was interesting," she said. "But wasn't it weird that he fell in love with an eighty-year-old woman?"

"I don't think it's weird. I mean, love is love. You can't help who... you fall... in love with," he said, his head slowly turning as he had spotted Mr. Burns in the crowd, unaccompanied. He let go of Cheryl's hand, said, "Excuse me for a second," and ran off to catch up to him as he stood in line at the concession stand. "Mr. Burns!" he called.

"Ah, Waylon Junior. So nice to run into you."

"It's nice running into you, too, sir. What movie are you going to see?"

"The French Connection. Which are you going to see?"

"Oh, I just saw Harold and Maude."

"A delightful romp. Well, be on your way, but remember – I expect you bright and early tomorrow to shovel snow. I want the walkway clear and salted by the time I get up."

"It'll be my pleasure, sir."

Mr. Burns advanced to the front of the line. "Hm... I want popcorn, a soda, and a box of Goobers. But I can't hold all three. Well, isn't this the pickle. Unless... Waylon, how would you like to hold my Goobers?"

"You mean, sit and watch the movie with you? And feed you candy? Of course!"

"Good, then I'll just go and purchase a ticket for you, and we'll be off."

"Oh. Oh, no, I forgot! Cheryl is still here; she'll need a ride home."

"Don't worry about her; my chauffeur will take her."

"Okay, then! I'll tell her." He went back to Cheryl. "I'm sorry, I can't take you home. I have to assist Mr. Burns."

"What?"

"Don't worry, though, his chauffeur will take you home."

"This is the second time this week you've ended a date early to go work for him."

"I thought our date was over already."

She sighed in frustration. "Well, I guess it is now."

"Have a good night," he said, giving her a hug. "Warren will make sure you get to your door safely."

"Have a good night," she said, her sentence feeling incomplete as she watched Waylon leave to join Mr. Burns at the ticket counter.

When Burns put the ticket in his hands, Waylon's cheeks flushed as he curled his fingers up to brush against Burns' for just a second longer. "Ready to see the film, sir?"

"Yes. Now hurry up, or we'll miss the previews."

"Absolutely, sir."

As they left the theater following the film, Mr. Burns gave him his empty soda to dispose and said, "Have you eaten dinner yet?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"Then how would you like to join me for dinner? How does The Gilded Truffle sound?"

"Are they open this late? It's almost eleven."

"They're open this late for Monty Burns. Call and let them know we're coming." Waylon walked to the nearest phone booth, looked up the number in the phone book there, and placed the call.

Once inside the restaurant, he sat in rapt attention at the anecdotes Burns related as they waited for their food to arrive. They were alone save for the staff, and they could hear even the chirping of crickets outside. As they ate, Waylon took it upon himself to dab at Burns' chin when his wine dripped down it.

"Have a sip," said Burns. Noting his hesitation, he said, "Oh, don't be shy. There's nothing wrong with a young man having a sip of wine." Waylon closed his hand around Burns' fingers gripping its stem and drank a prolonged sip before tilting it back to Burns' lips and dragging his fingertips across the back of his hand as he let go.

"Thank you, sir. That was very... very good."

"Do you like your risotto as much?"

"Not – quite."

"Try my calamari." He fed him a bite off his fork. As Waylon moaned and shook his head in approval, Burns said, "Excellent, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me, what are your plans after high school?"

"I'm going to go to Springfield University, get a degree in accounting or business or something, then go work for a company somewhere and settle down. You know, the dog, the kids, the picket fence."

"How would you like instead to come work for me full-time?"

His jaw fell open as the corners of his lips stretched into a smile. "I'd love that, sir." He took a bite. "But what about my college education?"

"Bah! College is only good for developing a gentleman's social etiquette and making connections with powerful people. I can teach you all you need to know, and you'll never meet anyone as powerful as I at Springfield U."

"What about when I switch jobs? Won't a prospective employer want me to have a degree?"

"You misunderstand my offer. I want you to work for me indefinitely."

"Sir, I'm awfully flattered, but I don't want to spend the next few decades of my life shoveling snow and weeding your gardens."

"Nor shall you. You will have plenty of opportunities for advancement. I see a great deal of potential in you, and I want to cultivate it. One day, I'll make you my Executive Vice President."

"R-really, sir? How do you know I'll be good for the job?"

"I sense a spark in you – a spark of something fierce. Your father had it, too, and you are every bit your father's son. With your raw potential and my guidance, you will become a great man." He sipped of his wine. "And I'll give you a bit of advice – family life isn't all it's cracked up to be. It'll only hold you back from achieving success." He finished the last of his wine. "Now, will you join me for a nightcap at my estate?"

"Well, my parents expected me back home three hours ago, but – screw them!"

"Now you have the right attitude! You'll make a fine businessman." He wrote a check out for the meal and slapped it onto the table as he stood.

"What about the tip, sir?"

"Here's a tip – the drudges and peons of this world are always looking for handouts, and if you give them a tip, they'll demand you get taxed out of all your hard-earned income. The only time you should tip is if you're seeking to impress your companion, in which case you should tip no less than 50%."

"So you're not going to try to impress me?"

"Are you not already impressed by me?"

"I am thoroughly impressed, sir."

"Excellent. Now, come with me." He led Waylon outside to his vintage limousine, and they both sat in the passenger compartment. "Warren, take us home." It wasn't often he got to ride in the backseat of Burns' limo, but it thrilled him every time. He had always assumed it was the glitzy luxury that spawned that rush and flutter, but he was coming to realize it was the man sitting beside him, into whose eyes he stared so raptly that he failed to notice the streetlights flicker past until the vehicle finally crawled to a halt in front of Burns Manor. Waylon got out and quickly circled around to the other side to take Burns' hand to assist him.

Once inside, Mr. Burns led him to the bar where he kept his wine and spirits and grabbed two martini glasses. He set them down and slid them in Waylon's direction, followed by bottles of gin and vermouth. "Make me a martini."

"But I don't know... Teach me how."

"Now, everyone has his own opinion about the ratio of gin to vermouth – here's the right one: three parts gin to one part vermouth. That's how we had them in the speakeasies I frequented."

"So I just mix them in that ratio? That's easy."

Burns chuckled, put his hand on Waylon's shoulder, and said, "There's a little more to it than that. You'll want to add orange bitters, for one," he said, pulling a bottle of orange bitters towards them, "and then you'll stir it in ice and strain it into the glasses." Waylon mixed the ingredients and stirred in ice, then strained it into the glasses as he was told. "Now fetch us a couple of olives," he said, and Waylon went to the fridge and retrieved the olives, plopping them into the glasses. "Let's see how you've done," he said, bringing the rim of one of the glasses to his lips. Waylon looked at him, eagerly awaiting approval. "It's... excellent." Waylon smiled an irrepressible smile. "Take our drinks to the sitting room."

" _Our_ drinks? Sir, I don't think I should –"

"The sooner you stop concerning yourself with what you _should_ do and start focusing on what you _want_ to do, the better off you'll be. Now come sit by the fire with me and enjoy your martini." He walked into the sitting room, seating himself in a sofa as Waylon followed with their drinks and sat beside him. "Go ahead. Try it." He took a tentative sip and noticeably grimaced. Burns chuckled and said, "You're just not used to hard liquor. You'll grow to appreciate it soon enough." He touched his glass to Waylon's. "Cheers."

"Cheers." They each sipped of their glasses. "It tastes better already." He smirked. "Look at me, sitting in a mansion, sipping a martini. If the guys at school saw me now, they wouldn't think I was so uncool."

"Those backwater buffoons couldn't find cool in the Arctic ocean. They won't look so cool when they're shining your shoes for pennies. Trust me – no one is cooler than when he's riding around in a limousine and his wallet is stuffed with cash."

"I only wish I didn't have to go to school with them in the meantime."

"They give you a hard time, don't they?" Reluctant to admit it, he slowly shook his head in the affirmative. "Well, keep your pecker up. Things will get better for you, I guarantee it. You know, I, too, was a social misfit when I was a child."

" _You_ , sir?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it? But the fellow children didn't like me. I was a meek little boy back then. Fortunately, there was usually a servant around I could take it out on."

"They'll all gang up on me, shouting awful things, and beat me until I just hope I'll black out."

Burns' eyes widened in dismay. The children had never physically beaten him, as no one would have dared harm a child of such a wealthy and powerful family. "And what punishment do they receive for these assaults?"

"Nothing. When I try to report them, they just blame it on me because I'm... different."

"Good heavens! Who are these odious people?"

"The bullies or the counselors?"

"Both."

"Counselor Stiffey, Principal Dondalinger, Rex Gabardi, George Sacilowski, Dillard Queeney, Alex Trump, Karl Uhlenbrauck, Greg Lacock, and Clark Little. There are others who pick on me, but those are the really violent ones."

"Write their names down for me, and I'll visit upon them a nightmare that ensures they'll never bother you again."

"What kind of nightmare?"

"No less than what they've inflicted upon you, I assure you."

Tears welled in his eyes. "Thank you, sir. Nobody's ever stood up for me like this." He sniffled. "When they get me cornered, I'm so scared, I feel like I'm about to die... and I'm not sure whether I dread that or whether I would welcome it." He collapsed against him and cried into Burns' chest.

Mr. Burns patted his back, his eyes darting aimlessly, as it was putting it lightly to say he was unaccustomed to comforting other human beings. Still, he felt a cutting sorrow at those words. He couldn't abide Waylon Junior saying he wished to die. Not when he'd witnessed his father do just that only seventeen years earlier. Slowly, he closed his arms around Waylon and squeezed him close, a tear dripping out of the corner of his eye. "Don't let those wastes of air cut you down. You're a fine young man, and I know you'll be great someday."

"Really?" He looked into Burns' eyes.

"Really. And you know I don't lie to spare people's feelings."

He rested his head on Burns' shoulder and murmured into the cloth of his jacket, "I know you don't."

Giving his back a few parting pats, Burns withdrew from the hug but kept his hands on Waylon's shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. "Whenever you find yourself thinking you want to die, remember that your father loved you very much, and that he would have given anything for you to go on living." He let his hands slide away. "But enough about the past. To the future," he said, clinking his martini glass against Waylon's.

"To the future." They simultaneously drank, Waylon going from timid half-sips to gulping it, finishing it before Burns got halfway through his.

"Now, you don't want to drink those too fast. You don't want to become a wretched alcoholic."

"But I need it – just for tonight. To distract myself from the pain."

"Very well. I could do with a little dulling of the pain of the past myself," he said, taking a gulp of his martini. He finished in short order and said, "Make us another." He did so, and they imbibed in a mad rush to get drunk.

"My parents warned me you'd be a bad influence on me," he said, basking in his defiance as he handed Burns another martini and sat back beside him.

"Oh, and they were right. But being good is no fun in this world, as you've begun to discover."

They exchanged humorous anecdotes and laughed uproariously. Waylon told of the time when one of his bullies stumbled, got his pants caught on the bleachers, and accidentally pantsed himself in front of the football team. Burns told of the time he'd painted "Yale Rules" on Harvard Yard. Waylon told of the time he'd bowled over his fellow cast members of the school production of The Music Man with his impression of Richard Nixon, which he rendered for him in a slightly slurred fashion. Burns told him of the time he and Nixon drank John F. Kennedy under the table. As they ran out of amusing stories (or rather, no longer possessed the wherewithal to recall them), Burns reclined against the cushions and asked Waylon to refresh his drink. He gladly stumbled to the bar, fixed another drink, and brought it back only to discover that Burns was snoring, evidently in a deep sleep. Waylon took a sip before setting the glass down on a nearby table and sitting gently beside him, hoping not to disturb him, and gradually leaned against his side. He curled his arms around Burns', cuddled against him, and drifted into slumber.

* * *

Waylon awoke to an unfamiliar landscape of pillows and a lukewarm body pressed against his. It was early enough in the morning so that it was black as night out, and he'd awoken after a mere few hours, aroused by an erotic dream. In it, they had begun kissing, and one thing led to another and quickly they were without clothes and engaging in the most intimate contact, doing things he tried not to think about in his waking hours. The memory of his dream pleased him as much as it disturbed him – no, it pleased him just a bit more.

He relished in the sexually charged sensations he'd experienced in his dream as he relished the sensation of chastely touching Burns' arm. The man was the embodiment of elegant, masculine beauty, drip of drool sliding down his dry, cracked lips notwithstanding. He had always noticed the beauty of his lithe and frail figure, but he had never realized how deeply his desire ran. _This is what I should be feeling for Cheryl. But I don't. I feel it for him._

 _I want him._

His years spent battling his attractions to boys and men, hoping they would go away as he aged, catapulted out the window. _This isn't a phase I'm going through. I really am a homosexual._ He bit his lower lip and fought back tears. _I wish I could spend all the rest of today with him. The rest of my life. Go walk in the park together, go attend parties together, go lie in bed together. But that kind of thing just doesn't happen._

He inched his way off the sofa and headed for the bathroom to clean up and clear his head. _Oh, shit._ His parents would be pissed at him for sure for not coming home. _Wait – why do I have to go home at all? I can stay with Mr. Burns, quit high school and begin my full-time job now. I'll break up with my girlfriend, and hopefully, Mr. Burns will feel the same way about me._ He splashed water on his face. _What the hell are you thinking, Waylon? You're gonna throw away your entire life for some pipe dream about living happily ever after with a man who's almost eighty? Not to mention a man?_

"But I love him..." he said in a soft whisper to his reflection, his lips stretching into a nervous, embarrassed smile. "I love him." He reveled in saying the words aloud. "I love him!" he said, pulling his shoulders up and his forearms to his chest in a quietly giddy exclamation. He wanted desperately to march back into that sitting room and say it to his face, then kiss him. As unlikely and impractical as it was, his fantasy of abandoning his old life and settling into a new one at Burns' side thrilled him beyond measure.

He tip-toed back to the sofa and eased back into it, leaned against Mr. Burns as before, only this time, he brought an arm around Burns' waist. He tried to stay awake to savor the feeling, but within the hour, he succumbed to sleep, his head lolling onto Burns' chest.

If they couldn't sleep together nightly, then at least for this one short night, they would.


	6. Chapter 6

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Six**

"Wake up, Waylon," said Mr. Burns, attempting to pry him off but not making much headway.

"Huh?" he said groggily, yet again having to figure out where the hell he was and what had happened. The instant he felt Burns in his arms, though, he remembered everything. "Oh, sir!" He scrambled off of him. "Good morning."

Speaking with distance in his voice, he said, "So, it's morning." He looked to the martini he hadn't touched. "We really tied one off last night, didn't we?" He chuckled. "How did you like your first time being drunk?"

 _Getting drunk with you was the single most transformative experience of my life._ "It was pretty neat, sir. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure. You're a worthy assistant, and it's nice to have a man around the house to chat with after so many years rattling around here by my lonesome."

"That's so good to hear, because I was hoping to – well, you know your lifetime assistant offer? I accept. And I'd like to start as soon as possible."

"Excellent. You can begin by shoveling that snow off the walkways."

"Absolutely!" That morning, he shoveled the snow with greater vigor than he had ever done before and finished in record time. Changing from snow boots into his own shoes as he went back inside, he called down the hall, "What would you like for breakfast, sir?"

"A soft-boiled egg on toast with a side of oatmeal and fresh boysenberries."

"Coming right up, sir." He had never been asked to make Mr. Burns' breakfast before, but it felt like the thing to do, and he proceeded to make their breakfast with alacrity. Perhaps it was his growing up on a steady stream of family sitcoms and modeling himself after characters like June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver and Margaret Anderson of Father Knows Best. The message was clear: to get and keep a husband, one must be willing to be his servant. And he genuinely enjoyed serving him.

As they ate, Waylon beamed and tried in vain to suppress the blush on his cheeks as he never failed to keep his eyes on Burns'. Mr. Burns said, "Bit of a rough night last night, eh?"

"Actually, sir, for me, it was the best night in years."

"For me, as well," he said in a deliberate, hushed epiphany.

"I can't tell you how excited I am to accept this job." He really couldn't. "After breakfast, you'll have to show me which room is mine, and I'll get settled in right away. There's only one thing I want to go back and get from my house. Well, that, and some of my clothes, and maybe some school assignments I'm especially proud of – oh! And my poster of Ringo Starr."

"Whoa, there – I never said anything about you living with me."

"Oh, right – of course. How silly of me. I just thought – you said you liked having a man around the house."

"You're pleasant company, to be sure, but I'm not running a hostel here. And what would your mother say?"

"She'd want me to stay with her, but I'm eighteen already and I would be moving out in a few months anyway."

"You have to go back home."

"If you say so, sir."

"You'll be here every day tending to my whims."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Finish up your breakfast, and I'll give you a ride home."

"You're not going to have Warren drive me?"

"No. I want to see you off myself." After breakfast, Mr. Burns led him to his limousine and gestured for him to sit in the passenger seat up front. They got into their seats, and as Mr. Burns drove, he said, "I want you to remember what I told you. About your father."

"That he'd give up anything to see me go on living?"

"Yes. And your father isn't the only one who cares about you."

"I know, my mother loves me."

"As do I."

"You do?"

"Yes, now you live on Maple, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're worth more salt than all those knuckleheads at your school put together. Don't let them trick you into thinking you're their inferior, because _they_ are _your_ inferiors. I would not have shared my liquor or my home with any of them, but I was more than happy to share it with you." He slowed the car to a halt in front of Waylon's house.

"Thank you, sir," he said, hand on the door, reluctant to open it. He blushed and looked to Burns' feet. "I had an amazing time last night."

"We had a lot of fun, didn't we?"

"Lots." He slowly dragged his gaze up to meet Burns' eyes and froze there. He longed so to lean forward and kiss him goodbye. He released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Tell me we'll do this again." He stopped breathing again, terrified the answer would be no.

"I'd like that very much." His eyes widened as an idea struck him. "Stop by after school today. You'll begin your cultural education by learning the waltz."

Waylon exhaled and opened the car door, still lingering inside the vehicle, hoping for some physical contact. He extended his hand, and Burns shook it. "I'll see you at four."

"Oh! And write down the names of those people, the ones who've been attacking you. I need to send them a little message." Waylon took out a little pocket notebook, wrote down the names, and tore the sheet of paper out and handed it to him. He put it in his pocket and tented his fingers. "Excellent. By the end of the week, they'll know justice Monty Burns style and never bother you again."

Waylon grinned and waved him off. Once the limousine was completely out of sight, he turned to his house and strolled with a carefree bounce in his step to the front door, humming all the way. He put his key in the door and entered, face to face with his mother and step-father. He gulped. "Uh... you're probably wondering where I've been all night."

"You've been out drinking," said Hattie.

"No, mom, I –"

"Don't lie to me; I can smell it!" She looked penetratingly into his eyes. "You spent the night with Cheryl, didn't you?"

"I – uh... yes, mother. I was with Cheryl last night."

"You better not have gotten her pregnant."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that."

"You know how to use protection, don't you? Or do I need to get out the banana again and show you?"

"No! Please, don't! And yes, I know how to use protection."

"Good, because pregnancy turns a young woman's world upside down, and you have to respect the risk she's taking to be with you."

"I promise; I promise!"

She let out a heavy sigh and hugged him, kissing the top of his head before laying her cheek against it. "My baby boy has grown up." She patted his back. "You've grown into such a handsome young man. She is so lucky to have you."

"Yes... lucky us."

"Well, I suppose you'll want some breakfast," she said.

"Actually, I already ate."

"Oh, well then... just make sure you aren't late for school," she said, then went into the kitchen.

As she left, Winton approached Waylon. "So, you lost your virginity to a girl?" Waylon nodded meekly. "Atta boy," he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. "I have to tell you, for a long time there, I was afraid you would turn out queer. You know, because of that doll phase, and you prancing around in dresses. That's why we took you to Dr. Wexler, to make sure you wouldn't end up that way. And it looks like it worked, despite that old buzzard Burns forcing us to stop taking you. But it's worked well enough, obviously. How about you and me celebrate by having some beers and watching the Isotopes game?"

"Actually, I was going to... to see Cheryl again tonight. I had a nice, romantic evening planned: dinner, dancing... and maybe staying the night again."

"When did you become such a Casanova?" he said with pride rather than suspicion. It was easy for him to swallow the lies he wanted to hear.

"Since I decided to go for what I want instead of what I'm supposed to want."

"Chicks love that confident, independent attitude." He shook his head back and forth, recalling all the time and effort he'd put into him, culminating in this moment. "I'm proud of you."


	7. Chapter 7

**This is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Seven**

After school, Waylon drove immediately to Burns Manor. He spoke into the buzzer. "Sir? I'm here." Mr. Burns had the gates opened, and a while later, he trudged inside, head hung low. _Keep it together, Waylon. Put on a smile. Act like this isn't killing you. Just smile and enjoy the dancing._

Sitting in a chair beside the fire in his robe, Burns said, "Ah, Waylon, there you are. Looking forward to your dance lessons?"

He sniffled, his chest fluttering as if he were hiccuping. "Y-yes, sir. That sounds – lovely." He turned his head away and began to cry. "Excuse me. I have to go." He ran off for the nearest bathroom, where he sat on the toilet seat and rapidly brought his head down, his glasses falling to the floor, cracking a lens, as he covered his eyes with his hands and cried.

After a minute, he heard Burns' concerned pleas. "Waylon? Tell me what's wrong. Why are you crying?"

 _His voice. It's so damned enticing. I hear him and I just want to hold him and kiss him and..._

"Answer me at once!"

 _Oh, God, he sounds adorable when he's angry. This is so wrong. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this._

"I demand you open this door and tell me everything."

 _Everything. Even that I love you? Why can't I stop thinking about you like this? Everyone was right about me; I'm beyond salvage. If I could just get my stupid brain to stop..._ He slammed his forehead against the counter. _...thinking..._ He did it again, this time with more force. _...about..._

"What was that noise?" Burns pounded furiously on the door. "Let me in!" From within the bathroom: a single smack and a thudding sound as he collapsed to the floor. "Waylon...?" He looked frantically around, his eyes settling on a fire stoker. He wedged the tip between the door and frame and pried the door open. He rushed to the ground and brushed the back of his hand against his forehead. "Wake up! Waylon, wake up." A tear dripped out of his eye as he hugged him.

Waylon's eyes fluttered open. "M-Mr. Burns? Where am I?"

"You're in my hands now."

He smiled, whispering, "Then I'm happy," as he fell back unconscious.

When he next awoke, he was lying in Mr. Burns' bed, Burns sitting beside him, hand clasped over his wrist as he said, "You gave me quite a scare."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"I thought we'd talked about this. Why the devil would you hurt yourself after what I told you?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize. Tell me why." He stared straight into his eyes with that sensitive yet penetrating gaze he found so irresistible.

 _Because I've realized I am everything the bullies have said I was._ "Alex stole from me."

"That's not all."

"No."

"What else happened?"

"I was..." He placed his hand on Burns', over his own wrist. "I was in the bathroom during class, when Clark walked in. He and Alex. He grabbed me and pulled out this knife, a switchblade, and he – they pushed me up against the wall, and they said..." _Hey, faggot. You want to see my dick, don't you, sicko? Well, I'll make sure you never see yours again._ "...Clark said he was going to stab me, and he waved his knife around me while Alex held me against the wall, and I was frozen there, and I started crying in fear.

"Survival mode kicked in, and I kicked Clark as hard as I could in the jaw, but then Alex pushed me to the ground, and he got my wallet and stole the money I had, and he took out a photograph and said, 'aw, look, it's the crybaby back when he was a baby crybaby.' It was a picture of my father holding me when I was a baby. I told him to give it back, and he started to say, 'oh, that's right, your daddy is dead. So this must really mean something to you,' then he... he tore it to shreds and flushed it down the toilet.

"Then when I went to the office to report it, it turned out that Alex got there first, said he'd seen me attack Clark from out of the blue. He said the switchblade was mine and Clark had stolen it in self-defense. They suspended me and said I'm probably going to get expelled and my parents are going to find out and my whole life is ruined and –"

"You won't be expelled."

"And then when I was leaving, Dillard scratched an awful word into my car. And my parents are going to find all this out, and..."

"Why would you want to hide this from them?"

"Because... they might think I'm... I mean, they could think..."

"What word did he scratch into your car?" Waylon kept his lips tightly shut. "Well?"

"What does it matter?"

"Because I told you to tell me everything. Now, tell me."

"...Queer."

"But you're the most normal boy I've ever met."

"Thank you, sir. That means the world to me."

"You still haven't told me why you chose to hurt yourself."

"I just told you why."

"No, you didn't. You told me how they hurt you. Why did you join them?"

"I'm sorry, sir..."

"I told you to quit apologi –" Waylon started to cry again. "Just tell me why."

He buried his head between the pillows and Burns' torso. "Because they're right about me, and I hate myself for it. I'm not normal, sir, and I'm never going to be."

Burns wiped a tear from Waylon's face with the back of his hand. "No, you're not normal." He ran his hand repeatedly through Waylon's hair, palm gliding over forehead in a soothing fashion. "The truth is, you're much better than normal. And I'll make you see that, one way or another, because you're the one person in this world I give a damn about."

"I am?"

"Your father was very dear to me. And the older you get, the more of your father I see in you." _It's lovely, it's frightening._ "I want you to write me a detailed list of everything they've done to you. Then I will know how best to deal with them."

"What if they just retaliate with an even worse attack?" His breath caught in his throat as he contemplated the possibility.

"Rest assured, they will not have the resolve left to do anything once I'm through with them." Seeing his eyes were still wide open in fear, he held his hand and said, "I promise." He gave his hand a squeeze. "Until then, you aren't going back to school. You'll stay with me during the day."

"Thank you, sir." He sprang up and hugged Burns in grateful desperation, a few tears rolling down his cheek. Then, in a barely audible whisper, he said again, "Thank you, sir."

Burns hugged him back and said, "It's my pleasure." They held each other, neither feeling an inclination to break the contact. Waylon had grown into an attractive young man, much like his father. There was something magnetic in his eyes which his glasses only served to magnify. Burns removed the cracked glasses from his face and set them on the nightstand, then held him closer. Now that Waylon's vision was blurred without the aid of his glasses, Burns softened his eyes to betray his true affection. "All my pleasure." At those words, Waylon nestled his head between Burns' chest and chin, sniffling back a tear. His chest shuddered periodically in muted cries, and Burns ran his hands up and down his back as a couple of tears slipped out of his own eyes. Just seventeen years earlier, they had held each other like this as they had cried at his father's passing.

After several minutes lying still in each other's arms, Waylon fell asleep, and Burns took the opportunity to study his face more closely. _He has his father's good looks._ He screwed his face up at the thought. _What would he think of me eying up his own son? What would he think of me lying beside him? What would he think of me stealing a kiss from him?_ He knew the answers, and he knew that he didn't like them. So he disregarded the questions and turned his attention back to those magnetic eyes, closed and unrevealing as they were. _Just once. I need to know what it's like to kiss Waylon Smithers._ He slowly, tentatively, brought their lips into the slightest contact and lingered there for a moment. _If he wakes and discovers what I'm doing, he'll run from me, and I'll never see him again._ His heart raced as he inspected him for signs of stirring, and seeing none, he gradually pushed his lips against Waylon's. As he was about to retreat, Waylon opened his mouth a bit and drew him back to deepen the kiss.

"Dear Waylon, do you really feel this way for me?" His question met no response. Waylon snored a bit, his eyes shut without tension. _Oh. Of course not. He's still asleep. It's my wishful thinking, as ever. What could a man of scarcely eighteen years possibly want with a man as old as I?_ He contemplated whether he should risk another kiss. _I thought once would be enough. But now that I know what it's like to kiss him, I know I need another._ He touched their lips again, and, emboldened by his earlier reciprocation, Burns opened their mouths and relished in his taste. _I mustn't risk another._ Nevertheless, he went in for another kiss before he'd barely even ended the last one. _Now I must really cut this out before he catches me._ He withdrew and lay back against the bed, taking himself out of Waylon's arms.

He drew in long, shallow breaths, attempting to calm his jittery nerves and fluttering heart. In the back of his mind, he felt the condemnation of Waylon Senior like a ghostly breath on his neck. _I care about him. Is that such a crime?_ He sighed. _Stop bullshitting yourself, Monty. You kissed him because it's what_ you _wanted. You don't give a damn about whether it's what_ he _wanted. Oh, but it was worth it._ He smiled at Waylon, who was himself wearing a slight smile. _He seems happy enough. I haven't caused him any pain, have I? I've done nothing but ease his pain._

He felt Waylon's hand reach for his waist and grab him, dragging him close. He sidled up against Burns and began to grind against his leg, still very much asleep. _He's probably dreaming about his girlfriend. I should push him away._ He gasped as he realized he'd been holding his breath. _But I like how it feels._ _I'm finally getting what his father denied me all those years ago._ The thought that he was doing this with the son of his best friend and unrequited love turned him on more. _He's so much younger than I am... This feels so right, it must be wrong._ Waylon escalated the pace of his thrusting and came to an abrupt halt as he slumped over Burns' chest, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face before slackening, revealing him to be in a deep sleep. A wave of arrogant pride washed over him as he thought about how he was able to instill such ecstasy in a man so much younger.

 _But it wasn't I who made him feel that way. It was the girl in his dreams._ He looked pensively into Waylon's weary eyes. _If his father couldn't love me, what makes me think he ever could?_ He put his hand on Waylon's shoulder, then let it slip away as he swung his legs over the side and arose out of the bed. _So lovely. So frightening._

He stepped into the hall and shut the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Eight**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

Thanks for the reviews. I was pleasantly surprised at the responses, as I am not particularly good at writing for children, and it took all my resolve to refrain from putting up a disclaimer assuring readers that things would get better. The last chapter sheds some light on some of Burns' motivations in the second part of A Smithers Named Desire (which you don't need to have read, but it ties in). This story is fun to write, especially little things that are ironic given what the audience knows about the characters' futures (such as young Waylon thinking a bow tie didn't suit him).

* * *

When Waylon awoke, he was alone in the bed. _What just happened? Was I dreaming? Where am I?_ He'd dreamt that he was driving his car, but his brake line had been cut, and just as he was about to crash into a brick wall, a guardian angel had lifted him up and out of the car and carried him to safety. When he'd looked closer, the angel was Mr. Burns. He'd carried him up into the sky, above the clouds, above the stratosphere, and kissed him in a quiet passion.

He got up, went to the bathroom, and wandered into the main hall, calling for Mr. Burns until finally he spotted him in the solarium tending to his plants. "Ah, Waylon. I trust you're feeling better?"

He glanced up through the glass panels. "What time is it?"

"About six." He put the watering can down. "How are you?"

He rubbed his eye. "Okay. I have a headache, but it's not too bad."

"Come with me to dinner," he said, reaching an arm around his shoulder. And so they walked down the halls to the dining room and sat opposite each other on one end of the table. "So, did you have pleasant dreams?"

He nodded. "Very pleasant dreams."

"Ah, to be young again. Cheers," he said, extending his glass of wine. They touched each other's glasses together, then sipped from them. "I want you to stay the night with me again." Waylon could not repress the gleeful smile that bubbled immediately to the surface. "I take that as a 'yes.'" They each took bites of their steaks. "I want to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't try to hurt yourself again."

"That's really not nece –" He cut himself off, realizing that being on a self-harm watch would ensure their closeness. "I don't want to hurt myself anymore." That was a lie, but it was true that he had no intention of going through with any self-harm.

"Good, because I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you, even if it's you."

"Please, don't tell my parents."

"Don't tell them what?"

"Any of this." He dropped his fork. "Oh, damn. They'll have called my parents by now. I'm screwed."

"I told you I wouldn't let them expel you."

"But my parents –"

"Do you honestly believe she'd buy that cock and bull story? I've had many disagreements with your mother and her husband, but she has a level head on her shoulders. You're the last boy any sane person would expect to attack a student with a knife."

"I don't want them to see what happened to my car."

"I'll take it to the detailer first thing in the morning. Tell them I put a dent in it. In the meantime, I'll let you borrow one of my cars."

"Thank you, sir. But at the risk of sounding rude, I have to ask why you're doing all this nice stuff for me. I mean, you have such a bad reputation, but I've never seen you be anything but a perfect gentleman."

"I admit, I have nothing but contempt for most of humanity. But not for you."

"Do you think the bulk of humanity really deserves contempt?"

"You tell me. You're the one fending off assailants and getting blamed for your own victimization."

"Well, I really appreciate it."

Once they finished dinner, Burns led him to the ballroom and set some music playing on a gramophone. "Hm. Something is not quite right." He scanned the room, his eyes settling on Waylon. "It's you. You have no business waltzing with me."

"But sir –"

"Not in that attire." Waylon looked down to his pale pink polo shirt, plaid shorts, and green argyle socks. "Come with me." He led him to his master closet, a room the size of a small house lined with suits, coats, and other types of garments. "Most of the clothing here is tailored to me and wouldn't fit you, but I have some suits from when I was younger that would fit you like a dream." He dug through one of the racks. "Here, try this on," he said, throwing a burgundy suit at him. Waylon disrobed and put his legs through the pants, then tried pulling the jacket over his arms and found it constricted his biceps. He tried to close his pants and said, "I'm afraid it's too tight, sir."

"Bah! It's good for a suit to be form-fitting."

"But the seams are about to burst open! Especially at the crotch."

"All right, quit boasting; I'll get you another suit."

As Burns sifted through the clothes, Waylon tried on a nearby pair of turquoise pants. "These fit great. They're a bit short, though."

"Ah, yes. Those were mine as a teenager during a brief period when I was quite chubby." He poked at Waylon's belly and looked at him with sly eyes, a couple of suit jackets in his other hand.

"I guess I have neglected my exercise routine lately. From now on, I'm not going to miss a day of exercise, though; I'll get more fit than ever before."

"Rest assured, I'm only teasing you. You look fine."

Waylon took a green jacket out of Burns' hand and slipped it on. "This fits great!"

"The garden green and the turquoise? It's a bit garish."

"I like it. Green is my favorite color."

"I thought lavender was your favorite color."

"Oh... it was. I like green better now, though."

"There's a dress shirt in your size on that bench by the changing screen." On a long and slender polished wooden bench by an ornate seventeenth century French privacy screen painted with flowers with jewels embedded in the petals, sat a brand new white medium dress shirt. Waylon put the shirt on and slid the jacket on again. Burns looked him over. "Something is missing." He studied him critically, then his eyes lit up. "I almost forgot! I'll be right back," he said, leaving the room. He returned shortly after with a box the size of his hand. "I got something for you last week at the department store." He opened the box, revealing a lavender bow tie neatly tied. Waylon took it in his hands and tied it under the collar of his shirt.

"Thank you, sir," he said, admiring himself in a tall brass-framed mirror.

"Now, let's dance, shall we?"

"Those are the words I've been looking forward to all day."

He followed Burns to the ballroom, where he set Johann Strauss Jr.'s Künstlerleben Opus 316 playing on the gramophone. "Dance the waltz with me, Waylon."

"How do I –"

"First take my right hand in your left, then cup my left shoulder blade in your right hand."

"Like this?" he said, adopting the position.

"Yes, exactly. Now listen to the music. Get in tune with that 1-2-3 rhythm. Go on, tap your foot to it." He did so, and Burns said, "Good, good. Now, envision a box. You're going to move along each corner in 1-2-3-1-2-3, like this," he said, guiding Waylon's feet to the proper places. They went through it a few times.

"Like this?" he said, trying it without guidance.

"Yes, very good. You have a knack for this. Now, let's do it the other way around." After an hour of practicing and learning different flourishes, Mr. Burns said, "Now, it's time you ask me to dance." As Waylon opened his mouth, Burns said sharply, "The proper way. First, you bow." He made a courtly bow. "Then you reach out for the lady's hand, inviting her to dance."

He extended his arm and said, "Now, may I have this dance?"

"You may indeed." They danced the waltz, Waylon twirling Burns under the arch of their arms, then pivoting in a tight rotation. Waylon stared dreamily into his eyes while Burns looked into his with a controlled distance as they promenaded. He lifted Burns up in the air, then, Burns' back to his chest, he closed his arms around Burns, sent him out, then pulled him in for a rotary waltz. Once the piece had concluded after about nine minutes, they sat on a nearby settee together. "Thanks for teaching me to waltz."

"Thank you for being such an impressive student."

"I loved being your student." He turned his chin slightly down. "You think I'm impressive?"

"You dance as if you've practiced for weeks. It's as I said – you have a knack for this." While Waylon grinned and suppressed a blush, Burns gently slapped his arm around his shoulders. "Now, let's retire for the night." It was only eight o'clock, but he agreed it was a good time to go to bed. They entered Burns' bedroom, and each sat on one side of the bed. "This is the easiest way for me to monitor you," he said, rushing to justify his actions. "Now, fetch me my nightgown." Waylon retrieved it and handed it to him, then watched intently as Burns disrobed and changed into it. The man always cut a handsome figure, but nearly nude, he was hauntingly beautiful. "None of my clothes would fit you, so if you wish, you may take your clothes off and lay down another blanket."

He stripped his clothes down to his boxers in a subtly suggestive fashion, then retrieved a blanket and lay down on the bed. "It's so warm and cozy lying next to you here; I'm not sure I even need this blanket."

"You can't be serious; it's freezing in here!"

"When I was little and it was cold at night, I'd cuddle up with a teddy bear." Burns' eyes grew forlorn. "Since I don't see a teddy bear around, I'll just have to make do."

"At least cover yourself with this blanket," he said, gesturing to the blanket already laid upon the mattress.

"All right." He got under the covers, and Burns did likewise. His bed was very large, so there was quite the gulf between them. They lay there, looking at each other while pretending not to be looking at each other. Burns shut the lights off, but they continued to look in each other's direction. "Mr. Burns?"

"Yes?"

"Would you hate me if –"

"Cease your melodramatic jabbering already! Nothing could make me hate you."

"If I told you I wasn't... like the other boys."

"Oh, I knew that."

"You do?"

"Yes. You're more thoughtful, sensitive, more cunning and responsible than the other boys."

"Thanks. But I mean... I mean... Never mind. Good night."

"Hold it," he said, turning the light back on. "Tell me. Whatever it is, it won't change my respect for you."

"Well, I was with a guy a few weeks ago, and we..."

"Yes?"

"We... well, it started after gym class, and we were changing, and I – he was looking at me."

"And?"

"And I liked it. And I looked back. He approached me after school, and we waited until the school was nearly empty, and then we went into the bathroom together. And we... we touched each other, and it felt good. Really good." He winced. "So this is it. I'm really broken, just like everyone thought..."

"Is that all?"

"Um – yes."

"You're not broken. You're perfectly normal. It's completely normal to have such curiosity, and it's okay for you to explore it. In fact, I encourage it. Such exploits were rampant at the all-boys' boarding school I attended. Why, my roommate Ollie and I got up to all sorts of things after lights out."

"Like what kinds of things?"

"I'd hardly think it appropriate to satisfy the prurient interest of a minor."

"But I'm not a minor."

"Oh, yes, yes, I suppose you aren't." He smiled at the memories. "We had a lot of fun."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"The same as you did. And... I suppose we fellated each other a few times." Waylon's heart felt like it was going to leap out of his chest, and he instinctively clasped his hands together and held them against his heart. He grinned as widely as possible and let out a giddy murmur of laughter. "And I'll thank you not to smirk as if you had any high ground to hold."

"I wasn't..." He forced a neutral facial expression. "Have you ever thought about... doing it again?"

"Oh, good heavens, no. It was only a lack of available girls that drove us into each other's arms. Trust me, once your girlfriend starts giving away the milk, you won't have those desires anymore. In the mean time... go for it."

"So this will all go away once Cheryl and I get... intimate?"

"I guarantee it."

"Thanks, sir. I feel much better now." He did. But he couldn't help but feel a bit sad and anxious at the thought of seeing Mr. Burns as just an old man and not as the radiant, alluring beacon he saw lying beside him.

"Now, let's get some shut-eye, shall we?" He shut off the light, and each cuddled up against his pillows, longing to awaken in the other's arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Nine**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

I have long thought that Mr. Burns probably had some homosexual tendencies and was more tender to Waylon when he was younger. Smithers may be unreasonably optimistic, but he's not delusional, and clearly after twenty-five years of working for him, he has hope that Burns might reciprocate his affection.

* * *

"They did all this to you?" said Mr. Burns, lowering the list Waylon had written of the worst offenses committed by the bullies and school staff. From the other side of the breakfast nook table, Waylon nodded, pain in his eyes. "Has your mother done anything about this?"

"She doesn't know. I never told her about most of it. What she did know about, she met with the counselor about. With the principal. But they told her, in essence, that I had to suck it up and learn to be a man about it."

"Then they have no idea what being a man is all about." He glanced back at the list. "This Rex Gabardi. You say he gave you swirlies on a weekly basis. When you say 'swirlies', to what does that refer?"

"It's when they, uh, stick your head in a toilet bowl and flush. Sometimes I inhale a bit of the water and I feel like I'm about to drown."

"Dear God, that's diabolical. I'll have to incorporate that into my battery of interrogation techniques." His eyes scanned the list again, and he scrunched it in his hand. "I know exactly how I'll handle these cretins. My goons and I will take care of them."

"You're not going to... 'take care' of them, though, right?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I'm going to have them murdered."

"What? But sir, you could get into a lot of trouble for that. I wouldn't want to see you go to prison."

"Oh, very well. I'll simply have to employ more creative solutions. You stay here. I'll be back before the day is through." He stood and approached an intercom on the wall. "Brass! Choker! Blade! Warren! I need you at the gate, immediately." He turned back to Waylon and chuckled. "My goons have such delightful nicknames." He placed his hand on Waylon's shoulder. "After today, everything's going to be different for you."

"It already is."

* * *

Rex Gabardi was taking the garbage out that morning when a couple of strong men taped his mouth, grabbed him, blindfolded him, and chucked him into the back of a van and sped off. When they removed the blindfold and the tape from his mouth, he saw he was in what looked like a medieval torture chamber with half a dozen of cronies and acquaintances from school.

Mr. Burns stood in front of him. "So you have a penchant for holding Waylon's head in a toilet, I hear. Well, since you love the water so much, let's see how you like ten minutes of water board torture. Brass! Blade! Strap him to the board."

They did so, Rex squirming, frightened and confused. "What the hell is water board torture?"

"Oh, you'll find out in a minute."

The goons strapped him to a wooden board with iron clasps for the wrists and ankles, tightened to maximally restrict movement. They laid a strip of cloth over his face and began to saturate it with water. He struggled for about thirty seconds before they lifted the cloth for a couple of breaths, then covered his face once more. They repeated the procedure for a full ten minutes.

"Now, unless you enjoy this, don't ever bother Waylon Smithers again."

"You won't get away with this! When the cops and the papers find out you have a dungeon and –"

"How touchingly cute. And damned naive. You think they don't already know? I bought off the police force fifty years ago. And the press? They know what happens to those who go after me." He turned to George Sacilowski. "And you. You're the one with a habit of stuffing Waylon into lockers. Well, I have an enclosed space with your name on it. Choker – bring me the sack." Choker came forth holding a sack that appeared to be squirming. "Oh, and to sweeten the deal, I've filled it with rats and scorpions."

"No way, man. That'll leave evidence; they'll catch you for sure!"

"Didn't you hear me? Do you know how many bodies have gone missing without anyone ever pointing the finger at me? You'll tell them you got into a mishap at the park. Now, enjoy your punishment." Choker stuffed him into the sack and tied it up. Amid his screams, Mr. Burns said gleefully, "Now, who's next? Ah, how about you – Dillard Queeney, is that right? You're the one who scratched up Waylon's car. Well, let's see how you like going around with an epithet on display. You're in luck, because Mr. Stockard here happens to be an excellent tattooist. You'll stay in your restraints as he goes to work."

He turned to another boy, Greg Lacock. "You've done many awful things to Waylon, but few lend themselves easily to poetic justice. So I made use of the fact you broke his glasses last month and have often stolen them and mocked him for his vision deficiency. Brass, clip his eyelids." He attached restraints that wrapped around his head and attached to the eyelids, keeping them open. "Blade, bring the light." He brought out a very bright stage light on a stand pointed towards Greg. "You'll stare into this long enough to go half-blind, or possibly completely blind. I don't care either way."

He turned to Karl Uhlenbrauck. "Last year, you stripped Waylon naked and tied him to a flag pole and left him there in the dead of winter. So we'll have you wrapped up in a flag and buried in the snow."

"But that could kill me!"

"Hm. You didn't seem concerned about that when you left him out in the cold." He snapped his fingers, and his goons carried him off. "Now, you." Mr. Burns approached Clark Little with the most menacing of scowls. "For you, I have reserved the most grave consequence. And I don't use that word lightly." He walked to a wall and grabbed a sword and unsheathed it. "You like knife play?" He waved it around in a carefree manner. "It's more fun than tinker toys, I'm sure you'll agree." He held it up against the light emanating from the dim bulbs hanging overhead. "This sword hasn't seen blood since the Crusades. It's thirsty. Don't you hear it?" He slowly brought the tip of the sword to within a millimeter of his neck. "Those other boys needed lessons, but you, I'm afraid, are unteachable." He swiftly moved the sword horizontally away from his neck.

Lips trembling as the blood drained from his face, he said, "Look, man, I wasn't really gonna cut his dick off; I was just messing with him, I swear! I swear to God!"

Burns' eyes widened. "Waylon didn't tell me that part." He slowly brought the tip of the sword to hover in front of Clark's crotch. "It would be so easy to part you from your member. So very easy." His goons arrived back. Burns turned to them and barked, "Bring the surgeon in. Tell him to gather the necessary tools for a castration."

"No! God, please, I'm begging you! Don't do this, please, don't! No! Alex was there, too!"

"Oh, he has his punishment."

"I promise I won't hurt Waylon anymore; just let me go!"

"It's too late for that."

Hours later, Clark awoke from anesthesia. Once he became alert, he frantically felt his crotch and noticed he was still intact. "You didn't – oh, thank you, thank you, Jesus."

"Perhaps the next time you think to do such a thing, you'll remember the fear of death and mutilation and reconsider your course of action. Rest assured, though – if you so much as snicker at Waylon again, I won't be so nice." He turned to the tattooist and Dillard. "I'm sure you'll want to see yourself in a mirror, now."

"What the fuck did you write on my forehead?"

"Take a look and see," said Burns, handing him a hand mirror.

"bralluD?"

"It says 'Dullard', you dullard." He smirked. "Hm. 'Dillard the Dullard.' Has a nice ring to it. But I'm sure it's not the kind of thing that catches on with young people. Enjoy your indelible epithet." He turned to Greg. "And how is your vision? Still blind?"

"The middle is so blurry – I can't see!"

"Excellent. And Karl – still hypothermic, I see," he said, looking over the violently shivering boy. "Release George from the sack." His goons let him out, a few rats and scorpions spilling out with him. "Oh, and George? Some of those rats were rabid, so I'd advise a rabies shot." He scanned the group of frightened boys. "I hope you've all learned a valuable lesson – no one interferes with the interests of Montgomery Burns, and the wellbeing of Waylon Smithers is very much in my interests. I would have simply had you all killed, but Waylon was against it, so I held back. You have him to thank for your lives." He turned to leave. "The goons will release you. Make up whatever cockamamie story you like; just remember that if you point the finger at me, I will have you and your family murdered, regardless of what Waylon has to say about it. Have a safe and pleasant journey home."


	10. Chapter 10

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Ten**

"Did you hear the news? Alex Trump – you know, the guy who flushed my father's picture down the toilet – apparently his father's gone missing and reports are that he's dead." He stared into his soup. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"But of course. Irony was the whole point."

"You didn't –"

"I didn't have him killed. I merely detained him and spread the false reports of him being dead." He sipped of his mid-day tea.

"Wow. That's brutal." He smirked. "I like your style."

"Just wait until you hear what I did to your counselor. I hired a group of ruffians to beat him half to death right in front of the police and then bribed the police to arrest him and let his attackers go."

Waylon cupped his hand over his mouth and said, "You didn't!" as if he were responding to a piece of juicy gossip as opposed to a condemnable action.

"Oh, but I did. And as for your principal – I hit him with my car. When he cried out in pain, I told him to 'suck it up; be a man!' and drove off. When I later entered their offices to have a little chat about your standing at Springfield High School, they were more than eager to let you stay and graduate with honors."

"Sir, I must say, I'm impressed. You are a master of revenge."

"Aren't you glad to be on my side?"

"Very glad." He stirred his soup in tensely constricted swirls. "I still haven't talked to my parents. They're going to be mad I didn't come home last night. Well, my mom will be. She'll be even madder that I still haven't come home."

"Don't worry about that."

"But how can I not?"

"All right. After lunch, I'll go with you and talk to them."

"Well, my stepdad won't be there. He'll be at work."

"All the better."

Around one in the afternoon, Waylon pulled in front of his house in a 1913 Chevrolet Model C, Mr. Burns in the passenger seat beside him. They walked up to the doorstep, and before Mr. Burns could even rap on the door, Mrs. Smithers flung it open. "Waylon Joshua Smithers Junior! Where the hell have you been?" Her eyes shot to Mr. Burns. "What are you doing with my son?" she spat out in a protective fury.

"Soothing his aches and welts. Young Waylon here arrived for work yesterday after school, and he revealed to me that he'd been beaten rather savagely."

Her eyes welled with tears as her mouth dropped open a bit. "Oh, honey..." She hugged him and said in a croaky, shuddery whisper, "I'm so sorry." She wept into his shoulder and stroked the back of his head.

"You shouldn't be sorry, mom. It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is. I should have been able to protect you. I've failed you. I don't deserve to be your mother!"

"He's right, Hattie," said Mr. Burns, laying a hand on her shoulder. "It's not your fault."

Mrs. Smithers opened the door further and gestured for them to come inside. Mr. Burns took a seat in a yellow-green floral print chair while Waylon and Mrs. Smithers sat on a beige sofa together. She turned to her son and said, "Tell me what they did to you this time."

"It doesn't matter."

"You say that every time, and every time, they get away with it. You need to tell me these things."

"No, I don't. I'm eighteen, mother."

"You're still my child."

"But I don't need you like I used to."

"Clearly you still do."

"Mr. Burns took care of them already. They won't hurt me again."

"A knife, Waylon. My God. He assaulted you with a knife?"

"Yes."

Mr. Burns said, "The assailant threatened to cut off his genitals."

"We're going straight to the police."

"Please, mother, I don't want to be embroiled in a court battle. I just want to get on with my life."

"What if they attack you again?"

"They won't."

"Don't be stupid. Of course they will!"

"They won't," said Mr. Burns. "I have made sure of that."

"How can you be so sure? How could you have found a way to protect him when I've tried for ten years and failed?"

"Let's just say that with great wealth comes great opportunity – including the opportunity to exact vengeance without repercussion."

"What if this just provokes them further? What exactly did you do to them?"

"I have done nothing but put the fear of Monty Burns into them. They won't trouble your son any longer. Of that you have my guarantee."

"What were you doing at Mr. Burns' home, anyway? Winton told me you were seeing Cheryl last night."

"Yes, well, he asked me to come over, and I couldn't say 'no.'"

"You'd rather go to work than see your girlfriend?" She looked into his eyes and said, "Tell me, Waylon. Do you love her?"

"I do." It wasn't a lie. She didn't turn him on, but he did love her as a friend.

"Then why are you avoiding her?"

"I'm not avoiding her; things just came up."

"She called last night. She told me you didn't stay overnight with her."

"I told you already that I was with Mr. Burns last night."

"Not last night, the night before. She told me you've never stayed with her overnight."

"Maybe she was just lying so she wouldn't get in trouble."

"I told her I was okay with you two having sex as long as you used protection. I told her I wouldn't tell her parents. I could hear it in her voice; she wasn't lying. But I can hear it in your voice – you are lying."

"I'm not, I –"

"I wasn't born yesterday. Are you seeing someone on the side?"

"What? No!"

"He was with me," said Mr. Burns. "I saw him at the movie theater with his girlfriend and asked him to assist me. We had a late night, and so he slept with me – at the manor, I mean."

She turned to Waylon. "Then why did you lie to me about where you were?"

"I – uh..."

"Mr. Burns, I don't want you near my son anymore."

"What?" They said in a simultaneous gasp before saying, again in unison, "Why?"

"Because you're spending too much time together."

"But mother, he's my only real friend."

"He's driving you away from Cheryl."

"Mrs. Smithers, I won't make him work late again. I promise."

"I don't want him working for you at all."

Waylon said, "Why not?"

"I don't want to get a phone call from him one day telling me you've mysteriously gone missing."

"Perhaps it's best this way," said Mr. Burns. "It's been a pleasure, Waylon." He stood and extended his hand.

"But sir, I want to go on working for you, and she can't stop me."

"She can't, but I will."

"But sir..."

"You'll go to Springfield University, you'll get a degree, a steady job, a wife and kids, and you'll do so without my help. I want to see the man you make of yourself." He took Waylon's hand and shook. "Farewell, Waylon." He walked out the door, then turned back. "One last thing – would you give me a ride back to the manor?"

"Of course, sir." He stood and followed Mr. Burns.

"I'll let you know when your car is back from the detailer. You can keep the Chevrolet until then."

"I'll be back home soon, mom."

"Be careful."

"I will."

He opened the passenger door for Mr. Burns before getting behind the wheel himself. Once they were moving, Waylon said, "Sir, I can work for you and still go to Springfield University."

"I've already told you. You're through working for me."

"But why? Aren't I a good worker?"

"Yes."

"Don't you like me?

"Yes."

"Didn't you say I should go for what I want, regardless of what my family wants for me?"

"Yes."

"Well, what I want is to work for you."

"And what I want is for you to make your own way. Make your own friends. Make your own success." Waylon sniffled a bit. "I believe you have what it takes. Prove me right."

"Thank you, sir. I will do my best."

"That's the spirit." He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at Waylon's cheek, soaking up his sadness. "You're young, so you may have a hard time understanding this, but people don't stay in your life forever. People come and go, and you'll get along just fine without them."

"Really? So losing my father, that didn't hurt you?"

"Of course it hurt me!"

"But you don't still feel a void in your life, missing your best friend?"

"This isn't about your father."

"Don't you still miss him? Because I miss him, and I never even knew him."

"He is why I cannot let you work for me."

"Huh?"

"Your mother is right. I pulled him away from her. He spent less and less time with her up until his demise, and I was the last to see him alive before that tribe of Amazonians killed him. I want you to build your life with Cheryl. You told me what you wanted was the wife, the kids, the picket fence, and I don't want to stand in your way."

"What if I don't really want that?"

"Then you'll discover that on your own, as you should." They pulled into the drive in front of the entrance, and Waylon got out and opened the passenger door for Mr. Burns, taking his hand to help him out of the vehicle. "I will miss you terribly, Waylon. My dear, dear friend." They shook hands. "Farewell." He lightly squeezed Waylon's upper arm.

"Farewell, Mr. Burns," he said with a doleful smile. As Burns withdrew his arm, Waylon hugged him in desperation. "I'll miss you more than I can say."


	11. Chapter 11

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Eleven**

When he got home, his mother put her hand on his shoulder. "We need to talk." She led him to the sofa, and they sat there. "I know why they've been bullying you. I know you think you've kept it hidden from me, but I know."

"Because I'm a loser. A misfit nobody wants."

"I know you don't mean that."

"But that's what they think."

"That's not all that they think. Tell me why they're really bullying you."

"Because they're jealous of my intelligence? Because I obey the rules? How should I know what stupid reasons they have for hating me?" She stood and started to unzip the couch cushion, and he grabbed her hands to zip it back up.

"Are you going to tell me why you don't want me to unzip this cushion? Or do I have to do it?" He sat there, frozen. _She knows. I'm totally fucked._ She took his silence as a cue to finish unzipping the cushion, and his hands fell limply away. She turned the cushion over and pulled out some copies of _Young Physique_ , a beefcake mag showcasing fit male bodies in g-strings. His jaw dropped in abject mortification. "Let me guess – you read them for the articles."

Knowing that insulting her intelligence by actually trying to sell that excuse would only make things worse, he simply looked away, anywhere but those handsome men, and said, "No, I don't."

"Why would you do this to yourself?"

"Do what?"

"Entertain these hopeless fantasies? Why would you do that when you have something real, something good, in Cheryl?"

"I do love her. I'm guess I'm just a little bit bisexual."

"You've got to get your mind off this stuff and focus on the person you can actually build a life with."

"You think I haven't tried, like I'm doing this intentionally? I don't want those thoughts running through my head; it makes me sick! But I can't help what I feel."

"No, but you can certainly stop feeding those thoughts. Do you think looking at these will help those thoughts go away? Or just intensify them?"

"I've tried so many times to stop, but I can't! I just can't!"

"How long have you been struggling with this?"

"Like, ten years."

"I want you to be happy. But honey, this isn't going to make you happy. It's only made you miserable."

He shook his head. "But that's not true. These magazines, they make me feel good, better than anything else in my ridiculous farce of a life."

"Better than Cheryl makes you feel?"

"Yes. Better than she's ever made me feel. It's utter bliss."

"So you get a few minutes of bliss fantasizing about men. But at what cost? To be miserable for the rest of your life? I want things to get better for you, not worse."

"I want to change, but I just don't know how."

"Maybe the reason you're retreating into these fantasies is that you're reticent to be intimate with Cheryl. You're worried about it because you've never touched a woman's vagina and aren't sure how to please her." He grimaced at the thought. "Maybe you should give her a call."

* * *

"So, we're going to do this," said Waylon, facing Cheryl's naked body on his bed as if looking at a minefield. "Whoop-dee-doo."

"I'm ready when you are."

"Okay." He stood there, shirtless, his pants unzipped slightly and his fingers hovering over the zipper. "Um... I guess I should unzip my pants now."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," she said with a hint of irritation. Sometimes her boyfriend's awkwardness was less than endearing.

"Okay. I am unzipping my pants," he said as he did so, letting them fall to his ankles. He sat and finished removing them. "So, um... why don't you get started, and I'll be ready in a minute." He slid his underwear down while facing away from her. _I'm really about to do this. She's going to make me normal, and I can put all this ugliness behind me once and for all._

"Don't you want to get me started?"

"I wouldn't really know what to do – I mean, it's my first time, and –"

"I'll show you," she said, taking his hand and placing it over her clit and moaning at the touch. Touching her like this made his stomach churn, as if he were committing a violation. Not of her, since she wanted it, but of – what? Their friendship? The trust she had in believing this was something he wanted? His own true nature? "Faster." She guided his hand lower to her entrance. He recoiled as he felt her wetness. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, uh – nothing, nothing's wrong. Just, I, uh – really want to be inside you now."

"Take me now, Waylon. I need you inside me."

He tried to arouse himself by looking at her, then lowered his hand to stimulate himself. Images of men from his sexy magazines flashed through his mind. His thoughts turned to Mr. Burns, and the way he'd fallen asleep against him, and he felt a sudden rush of arousal. "Okay, where's the condom?" She handed him a packet and he tore it open and put it on. "Here goes nothing," he said, inching his way inside her. If the manual stimulation had felt awkward, this was even more so. "Is this okay? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"It's a little uncomfortable, but it's getting better." Her breath hitched in her throat. "Oh, yes, that's good. Right there."

"So, you like this?" She nodded. "Good, I'm glad." _At least one of us does_. He was starting to lose stamina, so he thought of his dreams of Mr. Burns and came shortly thereafter. "So, um, it was good for you?"

"It was... pretty good. I mean, it's our first time..."

"Right."

"You seemed really nervous. But you shouldn't be nervous. I don't expect you to be some expert lover. You care about how I feel, and that's what's most important."

"Right. I'm glad you enjoyed it." He looked around nervously. "Well, I think I'll go take a shower and hit the hay."

"I think I'll shower, too." She twirled a lock of hair. "We can shower together."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly. You'd be much too distracting. I'd be liable to get weak in the knees and slip and crack my head open. I'll be back soon enough, sweetheart."

He donned his robe and went inside the bathroom, locking the door immediately, leaving his glasses by the sink, discarding the condom, and dropping the robe to the ground as he turned the shower on. He let the water wash him clean and scrubbed himself repeatedly, then brought his hands to his face and began to cry. _It's the most awful thing I've ever done_. Whether it was the dishonesty inherent in the act or the sheer physical repugnance of it that made it so awful, he couldn't be sure.

 _This didn't fix me. Is this going to be my life?_ A life of stomach-churning sex paired with normalcy and respect, or a life of fulfilling sex paired with demonization and ostracism. It was a terrible choice to have to make, but he knew inexorably what he was going to do.

* * *

Waylon got down on his knee and opened a ring box. "Cheryl, will you marry me?"

"Of course I will!" She took the ring and slipped it over her finger, then hugged him tightly. "Oh, this is so exciting! I can't wait to tell mom and dad." She kissed him, then rested her head on his shoulder.

"I have it all planned out, the way I've always dreamed of. We'll have orchids, and doves, and Queen Anne's Lace, and –"

"And a harpist!"

"How did you know?"

"Well, you're always harping about how much you love the harp." She held her ring finger up to the light. "So, when do you want to have the ceremony?"

"About... four years from now."

"Four years?"

"After I finish college. I want to provide you with a nice, big house, and everything you could desire."

"I don't care about those things. I'm happy just to be with you."

"I just want to wait to get married until we can settle down together. Have that idyllic life we've always dreamt about." He rubbed the palm of her hand with his thumb. "Besides, it'll give us lots of time to make the ceremony just perfect."

"Why don't we get married in two years? That'll be plenty of time to plan the ceremony."

"Okay. You've got it. In two years, we'll walk down the aisle, and you'll make me the luckiest guy around by saying, 'I do.'"


	12. Chapter 12

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twelve**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** I hope that last chapter was as awkward and uncomfortable for you to read as it was for me to write.

* * *

"Excuse me," said Waylon to a tall man with shaggy dirty blond hair in the hall outside the Jebediah Springfield Auditorium at Springfield University. "Is this where they're holding the auditions for Anything Goes?"

He turned around, revealing baby blue eyes and a strong jaw. "Yeah. You're trying out for the musical?"

"No, I'm trying out for a bowling team," he said in a jocular tone rather than a bitter sarcastic one. "Yes, I'm trying out for the musical."

"What are you singing?"

"I've got 32 bars of 'Oh What a Beautiful Mornin' from Oklahoma! and 16 bars of 'Baby, Talk to Me' from Bye, Bye Birdie."

"And your monologue?"

"It's from George Bernard Shaw's 'Getting Married'. What are you reading?"

"From Oscar Wilde's 'A Woman of No Importance'. I'm singing 32 bars of 'Miracle of Miracles' from Fiddler on the Roof and 16 of 'Younger Than Springtime' from South Pacific."

"So," said Waylon, sticking his hands in his pockets and teetering on his feet, "have you been in many plays?"

"I was Anthony Kirby in You Can't Take it With You, Curly in Oklahoma! –"

"I was Curly, too!"

"Really? What else were you in?"

"I was Harold Hill in The Music Man and Hamlet in Hamlet."

"As opposed to Hamlet in A Streetcar Named Desire."

"Oh, I was Hamlet in Streetcar, too." Waylon laughed. "So, have you been in anything else?"

"I was George Gibbs in Our Town and Conrad Birdie in Bye Bye Birdie."

"You're perfect for that role – I mean, you have the looks of a teenage heartthrob."

"Thanks."

"You must hear that all the time."

"Well... yeah, actually. But it's nice hearing it from you. What's your name, by the way?"

"Waylon. Waylon Smithers."

"Morris. Morris Yackey." They shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Waylon."

"It's nice to meet you, too, Morris. What year are you?"

"Well, technically, I'm a graduate student. I graduated high school early and went through university at an accelerated pace. But if I hadn't skipped, I'd be a senior."

"I'm a sophomore."

"So, are you a theatre major?" said Morris.

"Me? Oh, no. I'm majoring in business with a concentration in accounting. I'm also taking a second major in English."

"An accountant, huh? So Leo Bloom is going for his big break?"

"You've seen The Producers? Wasn't that hilarious!"

"It was a riot!"

"When they got to 'Springtime for Hitler,' I was in stitches!"

"Oh, man, me, too!"

"But nah, I don't have any aspiration to make it big. I mean, it's just a school show. Not like I'm going to be producing my own musical." He averted his eyes briefly, then smiled and said, "So, what's your major?"

"Art history."

"Oh, really? That sounds interesting. You want to work at a museum or something?"

"Yeah. I've already got a job lined up at the Springfield Palace of Fine Arts as curator of their Renaissance art collection."

"That sounds so... so interesting." He felt like slapping himself for his utterly mundane and repetitive choice in words.

"Not as interesting as accounting, I'm sure," he quipped.

Waylon chuckled. "As funny as you are handsome." _Shit, did I just say that?_

"And I'm sure you're as smart as you are flattering."

Feeling his face flush, he looked down to his feet and said, "So, after the audition, would you like to grab a bite to eat?"

"I'd like that."

"I'd like that, too."

Morris smiled at him and swept his bangs back. "So, where'd you like to go?"

Lost in his eyes, the question barely registered. "Huh?"

"To eat. Where'd you like to go eat?"

"Oh, anywhere, I suppose. Where would you like to go?"

"How about Luigi's?"

"Sounds good."

The door opened. "Waylon Smithers? We're ready for your audition."

On his way to the door, Morris patted his back and said, "Break a leg."

He lingered by the door and listened to as much of the monologue as he could make out. "'No, ma'am; marriage didn't come natural. My wife had to break me into it. It came natural to her ... I very often felt inclined to run away myself, but when it came to the point I couldn't bear to hurt her feelings...'" When the director brought him out a few minutes later and called for Morris, Waylon touched his shoulder and said, "I'm sure you'll do great."

Waylon listened to as much of Morris' monologue as he could discern. "'And if I had a position, if I had prospects, I could – I could ask her to – Don't you understand now, mother, what it means to me to be Lord Illingworth's secretary? ... You have always tried to crush my ambition, mother – haven't you? You have told me that the world is a wicked place, that success is not worth having, that society is shallow, and all that sort of thing – well, I don't believe it, mother. I think the world must be delightful. I think society must be exquisite. I think success is a thing worth having. You have been wrong in all that you taught me, mother, quite wrong. Lord Illingworth is a successful man. He is a fashionable man. He is a man who lives in the world and for it. Well, I would give anything to be just like Lord Illingworth.'"

When he came out of the auditorium, his eyes twinkling, he smiled at Waylon, who greeted him with a smile and said, "So, how do you think you did?"

"I think I did okay."

"Just okay?"

"Okay, I killed it."

"I hope we both get parts."

"Me, too. But even if we don't, we can still keep in touch, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"I thought you might," said Morris, slipping him a crumpled receipt for a book of paintings by Monet with his phone number scrawled hurriedly on the back of it.

"Let's get going. I'll drive you."

* * *

"Hey, Waylon, me and a bunch of the guys are going to shoot some pool and play beer pong. Wanna come with?" Lou Collier, his roommate and fellow Alpha Tau, put on his sports jacket, keys jangling below his fingers.

Sitting at the desk in front of some open books, he said, "Sorry, I've got homework for Managerial Accounting and Shakespearean Tragedies due tomorrow. But I'll be finished in a few hours, so come back with some friends and I'll get a keg and we can party it up tonight."

"No can do, man. I'm staying over with Janice tonight."

"Oh. Well, maybe Saturday night, then."

"As long as you've got the place to yourself tonight, why don't you give your fiancee a call?"

"Good idea."

"Well, see ya," said Lou, closing the door.

Shortly after he left, the telephone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey, Waylon."

"Morris! Hi!"

"Are you busy?"

"No, not at all." He sat upright, shutting his books. "You want to do something?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah, my roommate just left."

"I'd like to come over and talk to you."

"That'd be great."

"Okay. I'll be right there." A few minutes later, Morris had made it across campus to his room and knocked at his door.

"It's open," he said, and Morris opened the door, then closed and locked it behind him. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too." He glanced at the books. "What are you studying, there?"

"Oh, just writing an essay on Romeo and Juliet for my Honors Shakespearean Tragedies class."

"I took that last year. Who do you have?"

"Russell."

"Oh, he's good."

Waylon glanced at the door and back at him. "Do you want to see a movie, or something?"

"We've already seen all the movies that are playing."

"Oh, yeah."

"How about we practice for the show? I'd like to hear you sing."

"You heard me sing yesterday at rehearsal."

"But that was in front of the whole cast. I want to hear you sing alone."

"Okay," he said, standing and clearing his throat. "How about 'Easy to Love'?"

"I'll say Hope's lines to introduce you," said Morris. "'You're being terribly bad, Billy. Why, we hardly know each other.'"

"'Hardly know each other?'"

"'We had one night at a party. We danced, had a little too much wine, took a little spin around the park...'"

"'You call five hours in the back of a taxi a little spin?'"

"'Four hours.'"

"'Five, remember, you fell asleep after we –'"

"'I remember.'"

"'And then I took you to that little cafe down by the docks.'"

"'We had breakfast as the sun came up.'"

"'Talked about going to California, getting a little bungalow... raising orange trees.'"

"'Raising kids... Billy, that was a fantasy. Things like that just aren't done.'"

"'Yeah, I guess you're right. Me and you – who was I kidding?'" He proceeded to sing 'Easy to Love'.

"'Billy, this is all wrong; I'm marrying Evelyn and nothing can change that.'"

"'You can change that. All you have to do is say –'"

"'No. If you don't leave me alone, I'll make a scene.'"

"'You love me, Hope. You're gonna marry me.'" He smiled shyly. "So, what did you think?"

"You were terrific."

"So, you want to sing 'Friendship'? I'll be Reno Sweeney."

"Nah. After hearing you sing, I'm not in the mood for friendship."

"Then... what are you in the mood for?"

"I want to talk to you." He sat on Waylon's bed. Waylon followed suit.

"About what?"

"Just... stuff." He looked away, then looked back and said, "I really like you, Waylon. You're funny, you're smart, you're – I'm really glad I met you."

"I'm glad I met _you_."

"And I was just wondering if... if you'd like to come with me to tonight's meeting of the Gay Student Union."

Waylon gulped. "Excuse me? Why would I want to go meet with a bunch of queers?"

"Well, aren't you?"

"No! No, what made you think that?"

"There's the way you check me out whenever I walk in the room."

"I am not 'checking you out,' pervert! I'm just..."

"I check you out, too. Or haven't you noticed?"

"I... you what?"

"You're cute."

He blushed and turned his head slightly, bashfully, away. "You think so?"

"Yeah. I'd love to have you."

"You would?"

"Yeah. One look at you, and I get hot pants."

"And if, hypothetically, I told you I was... like that, and if, hypothetically, I said I liked you like that, you would have se – spend the night with me?"

"Yeah."

"I am... I mean, I want..." He kissed Morris, leaning him back against the bed. They swiftly removed each other's clothes, and before they went any further, Waylon held him close and gasped in exhilaration. "So this is how it's supposed to be."

"Baby, this is just the beginning."

The bliss he felt that afternoon far surpassed what he used to feel looking at those magazines.

After they finished, they cuddled against each other under a blanket. Waylon kissed him multiple times as he ran his hand through Morris' bangs. "You're so beautiful. I could look into your eyes all day."

"You're a seriously handsome man. You've got that cute accountant look."

"I never knew there was such a thing."

"There is now." He glanced at the clock beside the bed. "What time is your roommate getting back?"

"He said he'll be gone the whole night." He traced his index finger down Morris' chest. "This was – you were incredible. You made me feel better than I've ever felt before."

"We'd better put our pants on in case he comes back early." He reached for his boxers.

"Good idea." They dressed, then lay back in bed together, stroking each other's cheeks. "How was I?"

"You were great."

"It's my first time, you know."

"Really? You seemed so comfortable and confident and... skilled."

"Well, actually, I did mess around with a guy in high school – but that was just a hand job."

"You're trying to tell me you've never sucked cock before?" He nodded. "I don't believe you."

"Believe it or not, it's true. You're my first. Besides..." His thoughts turned to Cheryl, and he turned away, clutching his blankets and drawing them close to his chest. "Ugh. I'm an awful person."

"You're a wonderful person."

"No, I'm not! I've done something terrible!"

"Waylon, there is nothing wrong with what we just did."

"Of course there's something wrong with it!"

"We were just doing what comes natural. Pun not intended."

"Morris, I – I'm engaged!"

"You what?"

"I'm getting married this summer. I kind of proposed to my girlfriend in high school."

"'Kind of' proposed? How do you 'kind of' propose?"

"Okay, I proposed!"

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes. For the last two years."

"Jesus! How could you do that to her? To me?"

"Because I'm not attracted to her. But you – I just feel the air move as you walk by, and I desperately want to fall into your arms. I'm only marrying her because I have to."

"So you've decided that you're still going to marry her. Even if we keep having mind-blowing sex together, you're still going to go back to her and marry her?"

"You said you wanted to have sex with me. You didn't say it was anything more than that."

"I didn't say it, but I did want more. And I thought you wanted more, too. I really like you, Waylon, but I'm not going to lend you my heart knowing you're just going to return it like a library book."

"I do want more."

"Then why won't you go for it? If it's what you really want."

"I want to, but what would my life be like if I don't marry? I don't want to keep living in the shadows."

"We want the same thing. We just have different ideas of how to achieve it." He took Waylon's hand. "Come on. Come with me to the Gay Student Union meeting. I really think it'll open your eyes."

* * *

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** The "When I look at you, I get hot pants" line is a reference to Anything Goes. The English guy is trying to get the hang of American expressions, and a woman says this to him, and he offers her water. Later, thinking it's an innocent way of saying you like something, he uses the expression to a guy. In the musical, another guy accidentally proposes to a sailor, and then when someone points it out, he says something to the effect of, "What can I say? I'm lonely." Incidentally, Cole Porter, who wrote the musical, was gay himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

They walked down Liberty Hall, Waylon keeping a good nine or ten feet of distance as he furtively looked over his shoulder, scanning for anyone he recognized and pulling his jacket over his head a little. Morris turned around a corner and motioned with his hand for Waylon to follow him, then led him to the door to Room 1104, where a paper reading "Gay Student Union" was taped to the window. He opened the door and entered.

"Hi, Morris," said a man with short, curly black hair. "How's it goin'?"

"Groovy. How about you, Dave?" He looked back to see Waylon standing at the threshold, as if an invisible force field were preventing him from advancing.

"Groovy. Come on in," said Dave. "We don't bite."

"Speak for yourself," said a flamboyant young man with blond hair and a pink feather boa.

"Um... sure." Waylon took a few cautious steps forward, and Morris took him by the crook of his arm and led him to one of the chairs arranged in a circle.

"This is Waylon," said Morris, who turned his mouth to Waylon's ear and said in a quiet breath, "Why don't you introduce yourself?"

"Um, okay. My name is Waylon, and I'm getting a degree in business. I love musical theatre and literature, and I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, but Morris asked me to come, and I think I'll be leaving –"

A man with short red hair and freckles walked in, said, "Sorry I'm late," and went to Dave's side and Waylon stared, transfixed, as they kissed. He'd never seen two men kiss in front of other people before. He scanned the faces of the other group members and marveled at the way they didn't even react to it. They treated it like it was... normal.

"Are you sure you want to go?" asked Morris.

"No. No, I think I'll stay."

"Wonderful!" said Dave. "Waylon, this is my boyfriend, Sean. Sean, this is Waylon."

Sean shook his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Waylon."

"Likewise."

Dave gestured to a young woman wearing a plaid skirt and coke-bottle glasses with dark brown hair in a bouffant bob. "This is Louise, and this is her girlfriend, Patty." Gesturing to the next people in the circle, he said, "And this is Wyatt, Vicki, Harry, Hank, and Nancy." Each waved as their name was said. "Why don't you all tell us a little bit about yourselves?"

"Hi, I'm Louise. I'm studying library science, and as much as I love information, I never knew there was a word for people like me until a few years ago. I just knew that I didn't want a husband and the thought of kissing boys made me cringe, so I thought I must be asexual until my best friend kissed me by surprise. I did some reading and found out there were other women like me."

"Hi. I'm Patty."

"I know you!" said Waylon. "You gave me my first Malibu Stacy."

"Oh, yeah. I remember you. Anyway, I'm not a student here. I'm working a dead-end job at the DMV, but I'm not planning to do that for very long. I like to travel."

"Hi, I'm Wyatt." He was a lanky black man sporting an Afro. "I'm majoring in chemistry. Growing up, I never felt like I fit in, you know, but here, people are so accepting and open. I think you're gonna like it here, Waylon."

"Hi, I'm Vicki." She was wearing dungarees, her hair trimmed in a buzz cut. "I'm a biology major, and I'm minoring in women's studies. I'm out to my parents, and they don't like it, but they don't hate me, so that's good. I fix the family car, so they can't rag on me too much."

"I'm Harry." He had chestnut side swept hair and wore a blue polo shirt that revealed a reasonably muscular physique. "I'm studying psychology. I play in a local rock band, Lumbar Puncture. We're playing at the Cinema City Music Hall this Saturday, if you want to swing by."

"Hi, Waylon, I'm Hank." He was slender and fastidiously groomed, purple eyeshadow smeared on his eyelids and a silver earring in his right ear, a flashy multicolored sequin vest and pink feather boa around his shoulders, and psychedelic knee socks adorned with flowers. "I'm the premier faggot around here and don't you believe anybody who tells you different." He fussed with his knee socks, as a flower had gone off-kilter. "Oh! And I'm a dance major."

"I'm Nancy." She was a petite woman with long, flowing blond hair, and she wore an orange dress and black stockings. "I'm a women's studies major. I write poetry and articles for the periodical the women's collective prints, Eve Unchained."

"Sean and I started this group last year," said Dave, "and I'm glad we did, because there's no place like it in all of Springfield. Actually, we tried to start it up two years ago, but they didn't approve us until we appealed the decision. We do some political actions, but you don't have to participate in any public actions. Mostly, we're a social and support group. Welcome to the Gay Student Union, Waylon."

"This is unreal. I never knew places like this existed. Thank you for bringing me here, Morris."

"I thought you'd like it here." They took seats beside each other in the circle, Waylon looking nervously around him, feeling as if he were standing in the center of the room wearing nothing but his underwear. He reached for Morris' hand and clasped it in his. When Morris smiled at him, he blushed and held his hand tighter. "I brought him here to show him he can have a fulfilling relationship with a man, that it doesn't have to just be casual flings on the side."

"I'd like to believe that, I really would love to believe it. But how can a relationship be fulfilling if it's only behind closed doors?"

Dave tightened his lips in empathy. "Well, that's what we're trying to change. We're working toward increasing acceptance of us so that one day, we won't have to live in the shadows."

"But until then?"

"We use discretion. Come out when possible, but keep quiet when it's not safe. But we can't be so cautious we don't take any risks, or we wouldn't be meeting here at all. If there's anything to be learned from Stonewall, it's that we have to take some risks and push back."

"What's Stonewall?"

"You don't know about Stonewall?" said Harry.

Hank said in a haughty huff, "What kind of fag are you?"

"Hank, Waylon is just coming to terms with himself, so go easy on him, okay?" said Morris.

Dave said, "It's a gay bar in New York where the patrons rioted for days after one of the raids."

"Raids? A riot? I don't want to be part of any riot. I just want to blend into the background."

"But you'll never have that if some of us don't stand up and hurl a brick every now and then."

"Maybe so, but it won't be me." He let his hand slip from Morris'. "I don't even know why I'm sitting here indulging this pipe dream." He started to stand up.

Morris took his hand and said, "No, don't go –"

He wrenched his hand out of Morris' and snapped his head away. "I hate you! I hate you for showing me something so beautiful I can never have." He started for the door, and Morris scrambled out of his chair and followed him.

Once Waylon had opened the door a crack, Morris slammed it shut with his palm and took Waylon's chin in his other hand, turning his head back and forcing him to face him. "Say that to my face."

"I... I ha – I h-ha – have to have you." He kissed Morris with fervid abandon, bringing his hands up to caress his cheek and stroke the back of his head, tousling his hair while Morris lowered his hands to squeeze him at the hip and small of his back.

"I'm glad you said that, because right now, I want nothing more than I want you."

Waylon brushed the hair out of Morris' eyes so he could better look into them. "Really?"

"Really." He kissed Waylon's neck and grazed it with his teeth, causing his eyes to roll back a bit.

"You're making me weak in the knees."

"Don't worry. I won't let you fall," he said, taking his hand and leading him back to their chairs.

Louise said, "So he's the guy you've been crushing on."

"Yeah, he is."

"So," said Sean, "How long have you two been an item?"

"About... two hours."

"Two hours?"

"He didn't want to admit he's gay until I told him how shagadelic he is."

Waylon's face went bright red. "Please, don't tell them we slept together." He smacked his face at the stupidity of his words. He slunk low in his seat.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," said Dave. "Haven't you heard? This is the era of free love. It's way past time to ditch those old, oppressive hang-ups about sex."

"What the hell am I going to do? I can't leave you, I can't leave her, I'm totally fucked..." Morris hugged him around his shoulders as Waylon rested his head against Morris'.

"What's he talking about?" asked Harry.

Morris turned to face him, still running his hand through Waylon's hair, and said, "He's engaged."

"You don't have to go through with it," said Dave.

"But what would I say? My parents would know exactly why I'm breaking it off with her. She's the only reason they don't think I'm – gay." The word quivered off his lips. He was nowhere near accustomed to associating that word with himself – either meaning.

"You can say she's just not the right girl for you. Most guys don't want to marry straight out of high school, anyway."

"You don't understand! My mom found my stash of sexy hunk magazines. She knows I'm into men, but she thinks Cheryl has cured me of those thoughts."

"But Waylon, you can't change who you're attracted to. Psychiatrists have been trying for decades to use behavior modification techniques to change someone from homosexual to heterosexual, and it just doesn't work. Even torture doesn't work. So how could one girl do the trick?"

"But that's what she thinks."

"Listen," said Morris, "I'm not going to pressure you to make this decision right now. But I do need to know, before we get serious, where you stand. Because I really like you, and it would hurt me too much if we got really close and one day you decide to dump me in the shadows just so you can live a phony straight life."

"I like you, too." He shook his head. "No. I more than like you. I think I'm falling in love with you."


	14. Chapter 14

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Fourteen**

"It's such a nice day, isn't it?" said Cheryl, leaning back against a large oak tree on an unusually balmy winter day in Springfield Park. "Not even any snow on the ground." She took Waylon's hands and swung them absentmindedly to and fro. "Coming out here was a good idea."

"It is a nice day." He looked up and to the side, peering through the branches and leaves diffusing the sunlight streaming down from above. "Fitting for such a nice girl."

"Fitting for such a nice boy, too," she said, running her hand down his chest.

He gently pushed her hand away. "No. If there's one thing I want to get through to you today, it's this: I'm not a nice boy."

She drew herself slightly back, her hands still hovering over his chest and shoulder. "What's this all about?"

"Cheryl... you are an incredible girl, and you deserve no less than the best. And I cannot give that to you. I've tried, and I've tried, but I just don't have it in me to give."

"Waylon, I wouldn't care if we were living in a mud hut and pumping water out of a well. You don't need to lavish me with diamonds and gold to show you love me."

"I know. That's not what I mean, though. I mean – what I mean is..."

"Yes?"

"I'm just not ready for marriage, and it's not fair to you if I make you wait for me to be."

"I'm not in any rush – just tell me how long you need, and I'll wait."

"I don't know that I'll ever be ready for marriage."

"Are you saying...?"

"Do yourself a favor and find another guy. Someone who can love you the way you deserve."

"Are you saying you don't... love me?"

"Of course I love you, sweetheart. I just don't love you enough." She shut her eyes, tears flowing from them as her head bobbed down and up again from silent, shuddering cries. He put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. "I wish I could. Honest to God, I wish I could."

"But I used to be your special girl. You would tell me I was your whole world while looking at me with longing in those earnest eyes of yours. What's changed? What can I do to make you look at me like that again?"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's me who did something wrong. You deserve better."

"I don't want better; I want you!"

"I know you feel that way now, but trust me, in the long run, you're better off without me."

"Why do you keep painting yourself as some villain? I've never seen you be anything but a perfect gentleman."

"Now, you know that's not true."

"But it is!"

"Remember all those times I ended our date early just to pick up a couple extra work hours? Remember that time when I made us go see _Cabaret_ a second time when you wanted to see _What's Up, Doc?_ Remember when we were eating lunch last week and I didn't even offer to wipe the crumbs off your dress?"

"I don't expect you to be perfect. Besides, sometimes I'm pretty demanding, too."

He sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders, then slowly brought his eyes to meet hers. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you this, but I am no gentleman. I wronged you, Cheryl, and you didn't deserve it."

"What are you getting at?"

"In college, I, uh – found someone else."

"Someone else?" He closed his eyes and nodded, keeping his head turned to their feet when he opened them again. "Is she more experienced? Is that why?"

"What?"

"Has she been around the block? So she at least knows how to keep you excited?"

"What are you saying?"

"Look, I know you don't enjoy making love to me. But you took my virginity, you know, and I'm not very experienced – maybe if we'd done it more than a handful of times, I'd have gotten some meaningful practice, gotten a little better at it, but we go months between..."

"That was a mistake."

"We still have time to rectify it. We can go back to your place right now, and I swear, I'll do whatever it takes to please you."

"The mistake isn't that we didn't do it enough; it's that we did it at all."

"You're calling our first time a mistake?"

"Yes. I should have broken things off back then like I'd planned." _If only I'd known then there are some pipe dreams worth pursuing._

"That was the most beautiful thing in my life, and you're calling it a mistake."

"If that's really true, I am very sorry for you, and I hope you find all the beauty in the world. But you won't find it with me."

"But that was before you went to college. Why did you plan to break up with me then, before you met this college girl?"

"Look, none of this matters. All that matters is I'm not the guy you thought I was, and you don't want to be tied down to me. You've been my best friend for the last five years, and I wish you all the best. Find a man who loves you, body and soul, and make sure he knows how lucky he is to be with such a great girl." He hugged her around her shoulders, tightly, yet briefly. "Goodbye, Cheryl. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day." He turned away and began walking, but he stopped and looked back when he heard her burst into tears. He went back to her, caressing the back of her hand.

"I can't... believe... it's really... over..." she said through sniffles and desperate gasps for air.

"I can't stand seeing you sad. Can you get to the part where you start being angry at me? Because that would be much easier to handle."

"I'll grieve however I damn well please," she said through gritted teeth.

"That's the spirit." He held her by the crook of her elbow and helped her stand. "I'll give you a ride home."

"No. I think I'll walk home." She slid off her engagement ring and dropped it into his hand, then turned around and walked briskly away without looking back.

"Take care," he called after her as if they were parting on any other day. A detached notion of guilt tugged at the back of his mind, for he felt nothing but relief and a giddy joy in anticipation of pursuing his relationship with Morris.

* * *

Morris dropped his suitcase at the foot of the door to his new dorm room, then looked up to where Waylon lay on his bed. He shut and locked the door, then walked to the windows and pulled the shades before hopping onto his own bed. They lay there, facing each other and smiling. "Requesting each other as roommates was such a great idea," said Morris. "Now we won't have to sneak off in your car to go have sex in the backseat or live with the fear that one of our roommates will catch us kissing."

"I can't wait to push the beds together tonight." They looked at each other with a giddy, eager anticipation, anxiously looking to their watches. "Oh, what the hell!" They pushed the beds together and indulged unfettered in their passions.

"Don't have to worry about rushing to put our pants on anymore," said Morris, pulling Waylon close to his chest. "We can just lie back and relax, as if we're the only two people in the world."

"Morris."

"Yeah?"

"Where do you think we'll be in five years?"

"Are you interviewing me? Give the accountant thing a rest."

"No, I mean... what will our life be like?"

"After I graduate, we'll get a place together, and we'll go from there."

"I mean, a couple guys in their twenties living together, people wouldn't think anything of it. But what if we're still together in twenty years? Wouldn't the neighbors figure it out?"

"So what if they do? Who cares what the neighbors think?"

"I do, that's who."

"But that's so superficial to care about what people think."

"It's superficial to not want to be a pariah? Then why don't I call up your parents and tell them we've been shacking up? Since it's obviously not a big deal what they think."

"Okay, I see your point. But you can't plan out your life like your daily itinerary you plot out in your day planner. You can't prevent every bad thing that can possibly happen to you. The best things in life come with risks. We can guard against them as much as we can, but you can't live without any risk. What kind of life would that be?"

"Oh, shut up and kiss me." They kissed. "You know where I see us in five years?"

"Where?"

He stared deeply into his eyes. "In each other's arms."

Playfully squeezing his cheek, he said, "You're too much of a romantic to be an accountant."


	15. Chapter 15

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Fifteen**

"How was your day at work, sweetheart?" said Waylon from behind the wheel, the motor running outside the Springfield Palace of Fine Arts as Morris closed the passenger side door.

"It would've been better with you there." He leaned forward to kiss his cheek, his lips meeting air as Waylon lurched away.

"Are you crazy? What if someone sees us?"

"Nobody's looking. Come on." He leaned forward again and was again rebuffed. "We hardly even kiss anymore. Do you remember the last time we kissed?"

"It's just difficult because we're living at our parents' houses. Once our apartment is ready to move into, we can make up for all that lost time." He pulled out onto the street. "And I wish you'd use a seatbelt."

"Who are you, my mother?" he said with a playful smirk, then put his feet on the dash. "I've never used one before and I'm not about to start."

"If you like playing by your own rules so much, then how come I'm always the one driving you?"

"Because if I were driving, I couldn't spend our car rides gazing at that cute accountant face of yours." Waylon blushed and looked at him, briefly flashing him a warm smile. "That, and my Porsche is in the shop."

"Hasn't your car been in the shop since January?"

"No, they fixed it since then, but I crashed it again."

"Must be nice having rich parents."

"Envious?"

"Of course I am. You have the body of Adonis, the bank statement of J.D. Rockefeller, and the artistic vision of Claude Monet."

"You're just saying that because of that book I gave you."

"I love Monet. And I love your paintings."

"Please. There's a reason I have a degree in art history and not art."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're a great artist, and you should keep painting." He pulled into the drive of Morris' house and said, "Well, enjoy the rest of your day."

"Wait – can you stay awhile? In my room."

"What about your parents?"

"We'll just have to be quiet."

"I don't know..."

"Please, Waylon. We haven't been together in weeks. The tension is killing me. And I'll be thinking about you whether you're there or not, so you might as well come with me and join in the fun."

He smiled. "All right." He turned the car key and pulled it out. "Let's go."

They walked to the door, and Morris unlocked it and held it open for Waylon to go first. Sitting in a plaid easy chair, face hidden behind newspaper save for a tuft of receding brown-gray hair, was Morris' father. "How was work today, Morris?"

"It went well. Dad, this is my friend, Waylon."

He lowered the newspaper, scrutinizing his guest before standing and extending his hand. "Waylon. I've heard a lot about you." They shook hands. "So you're going to be an accountant?" He nodded. "Fine, steady career. We tried to talk Morris into going into accounting when he first started at Springfield U, but he made it out as if becoming an accountant were a fate worse than death. You don't think it's as bad as all that, do you?"

"No, sir. But then, I'm still a student. Check in again in three years."

The lines by his eyes wrinkled up a bit as he smiled. "Why don't you join us for dinner? The meatloaf should be ready soon."

"Thank you, sir. I'd like that very much."

"He's so polite! Morris, why can't you be that polite?"

In a total deadpan, he said, "Because I'm a cyborg and my politeness chip got damaged in the cyborg-human battle of '69." Waylon snickered. He could never give such a sarcastic response to an authority figure, but he really appreciated that Morris would.

"All right, wiseass, go see if your mother needs help in the kitchen."

"Yes, sir," said Morris, looking to Waylon for approval. "Was that polite enough for you?" Waylon shot him the briefest of smiles of endearment.

"So," Morris' father said, turning back to him, "you met Morris through that musical you did a few months back, eh, Everything Comes?"

"Anything Goes."

"Ah, yes, of course." He folded the paper and set it on the coffee table. "He's talked so much about you, I can hardly believe we haven't met before now."

A besotted smile crossed Waylon's lips. "What kinds of things does he say about me?"

"Oh, just some funny, clever things you've said. Some other things, too."

"Like what?"

"Like how you lost your father." He tightened his lips and shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, son. That must have been a real trial."

"It hasn't been too hard on me. I mean, I never knew him, so I can't miss what I never had, right?"

"Also that you're the best friend he's ever had."

"He's the best friend I've ever had, too."

"Dinner's ready!" said Morris, walking into the living room with an oven mitt hanging from his nose by its loop. "Donny, get your butt down here!" he called up the stairs.

Mr. Yackey headed for the dining room, followed by Morris and then Waylon who, laughing, snatched the oven mitt from Morris' face and slapped his ass with it.

He turned back and mouthed, "You're so naughty."

They sat around a round table with a platter of meatloaf and a bowl each of mashed potatoes and green beans. Donny, his ten-year-old brother with scruffy brown hair, ran down the stairs and seated himself between his parents' chairs while Mrs. Yackey apportioned the food onto the plates. "Now, I don't know how much you want, Waylon, so feel free to go for seconds. There's plenty here."

"Thank you for your generosity. It shouldn't surprise me, though. Morris is very generous, and now I see where he gets it from."

"Oh, thank you," said Mrs. Yackey. "You're a sweet boy."

Mr. Yackey said, "You know, Waylon's an accountant."

"Well, not yet."

"What's that you always say about accountants?" said Donny. "Something about how they're all dull-as-dirt conformist cowards?"

"Donny, don't say that," said Mr. Yackey.

"Oh, sorry."

"I said that before I met you, Waylon."

"No offense taken. You should hear what I used to say about artists."

"Okay, now I need to know."

"I'm afraid it's not fit for mixed company."

"Okay, now I _really_ need to know."

"I'll tell you after dinner."

Morris and Waylon got through only about half of what was on their plates when their mutual exchanges of glances communicated their desire to be alone. They excused themselves, then went upstairs to Morris' room and locked the door behind them. Morris had thrown himself back against his bed's downy blue blankets, and Waylon swiftly stole to his side, throwing himself on top of him and rolling them onto their sides.

"So what was that dirty joke?"

"Huh? Oh, that. It wasn't really a joke, just a little uncouth."

"I want to hear it. What you thought about artists."

"Just that artists sit around all day entertaining visions in their head and are basically paid to masturbate and show off the result to the public."

He grabbed at Waylon's crotch. "We do more than that, baby." They kissed each other deeply, sustaining the kiss as they removed each other's clothes. "If we do it quickly, before they finish dinner and head upstairs, we can get pretty loud without them hearing."

"How can you know that?"

"Experience."

"Can't argue with that." They kissed again, Waylon dragging his lips down Morris' chin to his neck.

Morris pulled his glasses off and set them on the nightstand, kissed his cheek just below his eye, and said, "Let's do it like it's the summer of '69."

After they had both come, Morris reversed himself, bringing his head to the foot of the bed beside Waylon's, and they held each other tightly. "Breaking off my engagement to be with you was the best decision of my life." He rested his chin on Morris' shoulder. "Maybe this would be a good time to tell you I love you."

"You've told me that before."

"No, I mean, I really love you. As in, if you were a woman, I would ask you to marry me."

"You want to marry me?"

"I mean, if that were possible."

"That's good," he said, pressing Waylon's head against his chest and running his hand through his hair, "because I want to marry you."

"But these are just sweet nothings. It's not like we actually can get married."

"Maybe not," he said, sitting up, "but maybe..." He got up and rummaged through his desk drawer.

"What are you looking for?"

"You'll see," he said, then jumped back into bed with him.

Waylon moved a lock of hair out of Morris' eyes and said, "What do you have there? Tell me."

He opened a black box, revealing his silver class ring from Springfield University. "It's engraved with my name and year of graduation on it. More important than my graduation year, though – it's when we started going steady. I want you to have it, Waylon."

"Oh, Morris..." He slipped the ring over his left hand ring finger. It was slightly loose but was in no danger of falling off. "I don't know what to say, except... I love you so damn much." He removed his own Springfield High stainless steel class ring from his right ring finger and slid it onto Morris' left ring finger. "It's engraved with my name, too." It was slightly snug on his finger, but not so much as to cause discomfort or swelling.

"Oh, wait, people will think it's strange we're wearing the rings on our wedding fingers and get suspicious." He started to slide Waylon's ring off, but Waylon pushed it back in place.

"Let them think."

Morris grinned, and they touched their noses together. "Now you're talking." They dressed back into their clothes and unlocked the door, then sat on his beanbag chairs, talking about their day.

In a few minutes, Mrs. Yackey knocked on the door and said, "Why don't you two come downstairs for some brownies and milk?"

They opened the door and descended the stair, following her into the dining room. "Thanks, mom. I can't wait to see how Waylon likes your delicious brownies."

"Oh, they're nothing special." She cut out a couple of hot squares the size of the palms of their hands and gave them one each. "Just an old family recipe courtesy of Betty Crocker."

Washing down a bite of brownie with a swig of milk, Waylon said, "Mm, these _are_ delicious, ma'am."

"I'm glad you like them."

"And you like Waylon, don't you?" said Morris.

"Yes, you're a delightful young man. Any mother would be proud to call you her son."

"Good. I'm glad you think that, because, mom, there's something I've been meaning to say awhile now, but... well, the timing never seemed right."

"What is it?"

"Well..." he looked into Waylon's eyes, seeking approval, then looked back to his mother's when he got it. "You know how I've always said I was too busy with my studies to date a girl?"

"Oh, have you found someone finally? Now that you don't have to cram for exams anymore, you have plenty of time to start going out."

"Yes, I found someone. I found Waylon."

She chuckled nervously. "You have such a strange sense of humor."

"No, mom, I'm completely serious. I'm gay, and Waylon is my boyfriend, and I've never been happier." He held Waylon's hand and smiled.

"I really don't get what's supposed to be funny about this joke."

"It's not a joke, mom, this is how I truly feel."

"I really love your son," said Waylon, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I would move heaven and earth for him."

Her lips tense, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Get out."

Morris rose from his chair. "If you send him away, you send me away."

"Don't tell your father. I wish you didn't tell me! It'll only anger him."

"That's precisely why I should tell him, because I'm not going to start liking women, and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life hiding, so he'd better get used to it. If it takes him ten or twenty years or never, so be it."

"What's all the yelling about?" asked Mr. Yackey as he entered the dining room.

"Dad. I have something I need to tell you –"

"You don't know what you're saying!"

"–And I hope you won't hate or disown me for it."

"Why would I ever hate you?" His teeth showed in a smile that grew strained as he picked up on the serious vibe. "What's this all about, son?"

"Dad. I've fallen in love." He looked into Waylon's eyes and back again. "With Waylon. I'm gay. I always have been. I always will be. And I hope in time you can accept me."

His eyes widened, and he reached out for the back of a nearby chair, which he skidded out across the linoleum to sit in as if staving off a fainting spell. "I don't hate you, Morris. If anything, I hate myself, that I was so blind, as if any normal boy would carry on like that extolling the virtues of a classmate the way you did. You're as much a product of this sick environment as is any of the rest of us, and I can't fault you for that, but no, I cannot agree that you always have been this way."

"Why else do you think I kissed Bobby McIntyre in kindergarten?"

"So maybe you were corrupted young; doesn't mean you were never corrupted. It was probably before you can even remember, so I won't engage in fruitless speculation. But there's the other point of contention – you've resigned yourself to being incurable, and that defeatist attitude is not the way I raised you."

"It's not defeatist; it's called being realistic."

"I call it being a quitter."

"Would a quitter have graduated class valedictorian? Made varsity football? Gotten first chair violin? Played starring roles in musicals? Earned a college degree and secured a good job right away?"

"That is completely diff –"

"Exactly! It's completely different, because all those goals were achievable. I should know; I achieved them! But nobody, not one person, has been converted from homosexual to heterosexual. The ones who say they have get caught having sex in public restrooms and just as soon as they get off their knees, they get back on their knees to do a little prayer and pretend like nothing happened. And there's no dignity in that life; none at all! If I'm gonna debauch, I at least want to do it honorably!"

"I can see there's no use talking to you just now. Honorable debauchery; do you even hear yourself?"

"Well, what else would you call a relationship of committed sodomy?" He intertwined the fingers of his left hand with Waylon's, showing off their rings. "I want to be with him the rest of my life."

"I won't let you disgrace this family, not after all we've done to raise you as an upstanding Christian."

"Okay. I thought that's probably what you'd say. But I want to ask you – for you to ask yourself – one little question: Why? Why is it wrong for us to love each other?"

"You call this love?"

"What would you call it?"

"An unnatural urge. Sin."

"What do you call it when you care more for another person than you care for yourself? When you weep for him when he's gone and rejoice when he returns? When you pledge your lives – bodies and souls – to each other for eternity? That's what I feel for him, and how you could sit there and call it sinful when you've never even seen it is beyond my comprehension."

"Now, that's enough! You are not going to stand in my house and lecture me about the virtues of sexual perversion. And my house is not going to become a haven for degenerates. Such wicked influences have no place in my home, and I will not expose Donny to this ungodliness!"

"You really think I'm wicked? Dad, do you really think that?"

"If you aren't, then prove it. Send him away and repent."

Waylon turned toward the door. Morris said, "No," and Waylon stopped in his tracks. "I have nothing to repent." He grabbed Waylon's hand.

His father stood and approached at a brisk pace, then yanked his hand out of Waylon's. "If I catch you doing that in public, I'll thrash you. I'm not going to be known as the father of a fucking queer."

He took Waylon's hand again. "I'll hold his hand wherever I damn well please!"

His father pushed Waylon backwards, causing him to lose balance and almost fall. "Get the hell out of my house, you filthy faggot, and leave my son alone."

Morris grabbed his father by the forearm and pulled him away. "You get your hands off him!"

He slapped Morris. "You don't raise your hand on your father."

"Then don't raise your hand on my boyfriend!"

He slapped Morris again. "Call him that again, and you'll really get it!"

"Okay, then. Don't raise your hand on my soulmate!"

"Fine, if you want to be a pervert, go be a pervert! But you won't do it under my roof, and you won't do it as my son."

"Dad, I –"

"Get out of my sight, and don't come back until you've committed yourself to living on the straight and narrow."

"If that's the way you want it. I'll just get some of my things," he said, then turned to Waylon and said, "Go warm up the car. I'll be there soon."

Waylon shuffled out the door and sat anxiously awaiting Morris. After about twenty minutes, he came out the door, arms full with art portfolios, a suitcase, a backpack, and his violin case. He packed his belongings into the backseat as his parents followed him outside.

"Morris!" shouted his father. "You don't have to leave."

"Well, do you want degenerates in the house or don't you?" he shouted back.

"Just repent. We can help you."

"Why are you leaving?" asked Donny from his bedroom window.

"Because Mom and Dad don't want me around anymore," he said, shoving his backpack in the backseat of Waylon's Chevy.

"How long are you going to be gone?"

"Until they want me back. Until then – goodbye." He got inside and slammed the passenger side door, and Waylon drove off. "That... that was..." He exhaled slowly. "Exhilarating."

"Huh?"

"Such a load off my shoulders! I've spent the last ten years in mortal fear of them finding out, and now they know, and it wasn't them discovering my secret, it was me telling them. I was the one calling the shots, and now I'm starting my life on my terms."

"You aren't upset?"

"I mean, of course I wish they'd reacted better, and I wish I didn't have to upset Donny, but it's pretty much what I'd expected, and I'm sure they'll come around if I just give them some time." They stopped in Waylon's driveway. "You don't mind if I sleep in your car until our apartment move-in date, do you?"

"Of course I'd mind. Here," he said, opening the door and coming around to the other side of the car and opening Morris' door. "You're staying with me tonight."

"Are you sure your parents won't mind?"

"Very sure. My mother's a sweetheart. And they both completely bought it when I came home crying, telling them Cheryl broke off the engagement. I holed myself up in my room and barely ate for two weeks!"

"It really pays to be a talented actor when you're gay."

"It really does." He looked down at Morris' class ring on his finger and stroked it. "It really would be too suspicious if we kept these rings on our wedding fingers."

"Yeah, you're right," said Morris, sliding his ring off his hand.

"You know I want to tell them. As soon as we move out, I'll tell them about us, how much you really mean to me."

He handed the ring to Waylon, who proceeded to put it on Morris' right ring finger. "What if they ask–"

Transferring his own ring from his left hand to his right, he said, "We'll tell them we lost them to each other while playing poker."

"Strip poker?"

"Are you making a suggestion? Because I'm all-in."

"Well, if you're all-in, then I'll be all out." He gave a suggestive smirk. "Do you think they'll buy it?"

"From a talented actor like you? They'll buy it like potheads buy Visine." He led Morris to the doorstep and turned the key. He entered the living room followed closely by Morris. His mother and stepfather were sitting in the living room watching the television news.

"...The Supreme Court heard arguments today for Nixon's appeal of the order to release the tapes..."

"Welcome home," said his mother. "There's some tuna casserole in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks, but I've eaten."

"Oh, and you've brought Morris. Do you want any tea, dear?"

"No thanks, Mrs. Smithers."

"How about some hot cocoa?"

"Actually, I'd love some hot cocoa."

"Certainly. You want any, Waylon?"

"Sure." He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame. "Uh, mom? I have a favor to ask, if you wouldn't mind."

"What is it?"

"Well, our apartment isn't ready yet, but Morris' parents got the move-in date wrong and rented out his room already, so he doesn't have a place to go. Do you mind if he stays here until then?"

"Oh – of course not, honey."

"Good. I'll get a sleeping bag out of the closet, and you can sleep there."

"It'll be like a sleepover."

"It's not _like_ a sleepover; it _is_ a sleepover."

She handed them each a mug of hot cocoa, and they ascended the stair to Waylon's room, where they took seats in a pair of umber lounge chairs. "Well. Just three more weeks, then we have our own place."

Waylon quickly yet gently rubbed the palm of his hand over Morris' wrist. "I can't wait."

Each sipped of his hot cocoa. "After we drink this, I should go to the car and at least bring my violin inside."

"Say no more," said Waylon, setting his mug onto a short and squat cherry wood end table and standing. "I'll go bring your things in now." He went downstairs and returned with his hands full of art portfolios and the violin in its case. "Your suitcase is at the foot of the stairs." He set the portfolios against the wall by his bed and handed Morris his violin.

"You didn't have to –"

"I wanted to." He rested his chin in his hand and looked seriously into Morris' eyes. "Play it for me."

"What?"

"That piece I really like, the one by Bach. Allegro... something."

"You mean the allegro assai from the third violin sonata in C major?"

"Yes, that one." Morris held the violin and set his chin against it, bow poised to strike. He looked so focused and soulful whenever he prepared to play his violin. He began to play, bow sliding over strings in a rapid, flowing fashion, his bow finding the notes with the ease of a knife slicing through butter softened by summer sun, notes frolicking off wiry metal and horsehair as the piece romped to its mirthful conclusion. "That's incredible you can do that."

"I practice a lot."

"I could never do that."

"How could you know? You haven't even taken lessons, so how could you know whether you could get good enough to play something like that?"

"I guess you're right."

"It's not like you're without musical talent. You play piano, right?"

"I took some lessons."

"Do you have a piano?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I want to hear you play."

"Oh, no, I couldn't; I'm out of practice, I –"

"Please?"

"Okay." They stood, and Morris took a folder out of his backpack, pulling out some sheet music. "I've got a duet for piano and violin here. It's Serenade, by Franz Schubert." They went downstairs, Waylon sitting at the piano and Morris standing beside him. Waylon played a few scales, and then they started playing.

After a few measures, Morris began playing. "You play very well," he said, and Waylon's finger slipped and depressed the keys adjacent to the ones he'd meant to press.

"You spoke too soon."

"Nah. You're doing great. You just kept right on playing, when a lesser player would want to stop and start over." After a minute or two, Waylon's mistakes became less frequent, and he finished the last two minutes without making a single error. They concluded the piece, Morris' finger quivering on the scarcely vibrating string as Waylon's fingers lingered on the keys while he looked up and back at Morris, who lowered his violin and said, "You're really good! I don't know why you were reluctant to play."

"I was afraid I'd make a fool of myself."

"I'll never see you as a fool."

Waylon smiled. "Do you want me to bring your suitcase up, now? I'll set up your sleeping bag, too."

"Right now? It's only eight-thirty."

"Oh, come on, Mister I-Love-The-Nightlife. Getting a full night's rest for a change won't kill you."

"Okay, but when we're living in our apartment, I'm not going to bed until eleven."

"You're the one with the full-time job; shouldn't you be the more responsible one?"

"Hey, I'm responsible. I always fold my garbage neatly before tossing it on the floor. Keeping the floors clean is your duty, by the way."

"Agreed. And toilet duty is yours."

"I'm pretty sure half of the doody in the toilet will be yours." He started for the stairs, Waylon following close behind. "We don't have to rigidly assign chores, as long as we both pitch in."

"I guess not. But you know, I'd be more than happy to take care of them."

Once inside his room, Waylon locked his door and got a sleeping bag from the closet and unfolded it on the floor. Pants hanging around his ankles, Morris raised an eyebrow and said, "You're not really going to make me sleep in that, are you?"

"Of course not. It's just for show, so that when we open the door in the morning, it'll look like you were sleeping in it." He rolled out the sleeping bag, ruffled it up, and threw an orange throw pillow at one end. He shut off the main light, then crawled into bed and held his arms out, inviting Morris, who rolled into bed with him and shut off his bedside lamp. "Goodnight, my love." They kissed.

"Goodnight, love."


	16. Chapter 16

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

"What's this?" said Morris, pulling out several inches of red-velvet from beneath their pillow a week later.

"Oh, that's nothing," he said, taking it quickly and putting it into his pocket.

"No, it's definitely something. What is it?"

He took it out of his pocket and unfolded his fingers from it, displaying it on his outstretched palm. "It's a... a coat."

"A coat?"

"For Malibu Stacy. I... collect them."

"You never told me you collect dolls."

"And my parents can't know; they'd kill me if they found out."

"Why didn't you tell me you collect dolls?"

"I was afraid you'd think I wasn't cool."

"So? I didn't decide to go out with you because I thought you were cool."

"Oh, thanks, that makes me feel a lot better."

"You aren't cool at all. You're hot."

"Thanks for the flattery, but we both know who's the hottie here, and it's not the guy in the glasses."

"Will you stop it with the false humility? I'm not dating you as charity. Isn't it obvious that you turn me on?"

"I guess so."

"You're damn right it is. I don't want to hear you talking that way about yourself. Your body may be attractive, but insecurity isn't." He kissed Waylon's cheek. "Besides, I think it's cute you're nostalgic for your childhood toys."

"It's not nostalgia." He stood and opened a lower desk drawer, then lifted up a false bottom and pulled out a Malibu Stacy – the one Burns had given him for his eleventh birthday. "Nostalgia is the last thing I feel for my childhood." He brought the doll to the bed and sat down, then slid the red, fuzzy coat over her rigid, plastic arms. "It's yearning." He stood the Malibu Stacy on his knee and gazed into her painted eyes.

"Yearning for what?" said Morris, stroking his back from the shoulder blades down and up again.

"For everything I was told I could never have." He curled his finger in her hair repeatedly. "You know, it's funny. Usually when kids want to marry a prince, they learn that's unrealistic because there aren't many princes around and why would a prince want to marry some American kid from the sticks, anyway? But the rarity of royalty wasn't the most unrealistic thing about my dream of marrying a prince – it was that I was a boy. I would dream that if I could be just like her, I could get a prince to marry me. And you know, as a kid, I was pretty girly, and most of my friends were girls, and the other boys were just awful about it. But I would pretend I was Malibu Stacy, and I could be glamorous and have a gorgeous husband and everyone would love me instead of laughing and beating me up."

"Aw. I'm so sorry they put you through that. I can't say I know what it's like – I was the all-American boy, good at sports and everything – but I saw guys get beat up, called 'queer' as they were being beaten up. I remember seeing them and being terrified people would find out I was gay and subject me to that same kind of torment. Just catching glimpses of it was enough to know it was a hellish experience."

"I'm glad you didn't go through that growing up." He hugged Morris, a tear creeping out of his eye. "So glad you didn't go through that."

He hugged Waylon and ran his hand up the back of his head, standing up his hair. "It's over now, though, baby. Soon, we'll move into our own apartment, and we'll begin building our lives together. I may not be a prince, but I'll love you and be gorgeous for you."

"Aw. And I'll love you and be glamorous for you."

Morris kissed where his neck met his collar bone and then drew them slowly apart. "Why don't we go to Joe's tonight after I get off work? Celebrate our upcoming freedom."

"Sounds good to me."

* * *

They pulled in front of a brown building with green and purple glass criss cross windows, an inconspicuous sign reading "Joe's" hanging over the door. They entered through the front door, the venue darkened yet cheery, multicolored lights strung from the ceilings in arcs. A case of pool cues mounted to the wall to their left and a pool table adjacent to it, booths lining that wall, the bar to the right. In the center hung a rainbow disco ball. Waylon had only been there a handful of times, but it already felt like home. It was the one place he felt completely free to be himself.

Morris and Waylon took a seat at the bar as Lou Rawls' "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine" played. "Hey, Joe," said Waylon to the bartender. "I'll have a tequila sunrise."

"Rum and coke for me." He put down a ten dollar bill. "I'm paying tonight."

"You pay every night."

"Of course I pay every night. I'm the one with the job, Mister 'I'm-So-Responsible.'"

"You're also the one who's two years older than I am."

Joe handed Morris his drink. "Thanks. How's Roy?"

"He's doing well," said Joe. "He just got a job at the nuclear power plant."

"Oh, yeah? What's he do there?"

"He's a nuclear technician. The pay's pretty good." He handed Waylon his drink.

"I almost got a job there once," said Waylon. "Mr. Burns, the owner, wanted to hire me straight out of high school."

"Really?"

As Waylon sipped his cocktail, Morris said, "He wouldn't have been a nuclear technician, though. He would've been an accountant."

"Not at first. I'd have started as a glorified secretary, then progressed from there."

Joe said, "Still, he wanted to hire you when you were in high school? You must have been pretty impressive to catch his attention that young."

"Mr. Burns is kind of a... friend of my family."

" _Mr. Burns_ is a friend of your family?"

"Well, of my father. They were best friends before he died."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. He died when I was still a baby, so I don't actually remember him. Still, from what my mother and Mr. Burns tell me, he was a great guy. I wish I could've known him."

Morris ran his hand up and down Waylon's forearm. "I'm sure he'd be proud of you."

"You mean like your father's so proud of you?"

Morris cradled his drink in his hands and sipped. "Let's not get into it."

"No, really. Here you've accomplished so much, become the All-American boy my parents always wanted me to be, but he finds out you love me, and now you're persona non grata. You know what? I'm glad I never knew my real father. If I'd let myself get attached to him, I would've been in for the biggest let-down of my life."

"Okay, you've made your point. I was just trying to reassure you."

"I don't need any reassurance." He took a couple of long sips. "Why did he leave to go on that expedition when my mother was in the hospital, anyway? He left me with Mr. Burns' maids to go after some silver shapeshifter mask in the Amazon. Mr. Burns showed it to me once. I just looked at it, all that polished silver, and thought, 'That's it? That's why he died? For this stupid hunk of metal?'" He scoffed. "Some father he was. Mr. Burns told me he would've done anything to save my life, but he wasn't even there for me when he was supposed to be taking care of me."

"You've done a great job getting along without him."

"Thanks." Waylon smiled and sipped his drink. "Sorry I brought up your father."

"It's okay." He sipped his drink. "He's old-fashioned, but he's not a hatemonger. I'm sure he'll come around sooner rather than later." Right as MFSB's "TSOP (The Sound of Philadelphia)" began playing, the door swung open, and in stepped Wyatt, followed by Dave, Sean, Louise, and Patty. "Hey, what's shakin'?"

Dave shook his hand and said, "We're working ourselves to the bone getting things ready for Springfield's first ever gay liberation parade," he said, giving high-fives first to Sean, then to Wyatt, "but overall, things are copacetic. Waylon, you get a chance to look over those permit papers?"

"Yes, and everything looks to be in order."

"Nancy's mimeoed some flyers and assembled a group of lesbians from the women's collective to march."

Morris laid his hand on Waylon's and said, "I wish you were going to march beside me."

"I wish I could." He took a large sip of his tequila sunrise. "I really do. But I spent my whole childhood being an outcast. I don't think I could do it again."

"I understand," he said, caressing the back of his hand.

"I guess I should tell you now," said Patty to Louise, "I've decided not to march in the parade."

"What? But what about all the discussions we had about the importance of coming out, standing to be counted? How the personal is political? I thought we were on the same page."

"I am, but I just can't do it. You don't know my mother. She would flip her lid if she found out, and I'd be hearing her snide barbs for the rest of my life."

"Don't you feel obligated to all the others like us, who share our struggle, whose lives we can improve by increasing our visibility?"

"Obligated? I didn't ask to be like this."

Wyatt said, "No need to rush her. Not everyone can be a radical. She'll come out when she's ready."

Louise took her hands and looked up into her eyes. "At least think it over?"

Patty tapped the end of her cigarette to shake off the ashes. "I'll think about it."

While the others ordered their drinks, Waylon hugged Morris, leaning against him. "I couldn't resist you if I tried."

"You did try."

"And I couldn't resist you."

He kissed Waylon's nose. "I'm glad you couldn't."

"I'll be there with you in spirit."

"I'll be marching for you, baby."

The ABBA song "Waterloo" began to play, and Waylon's eyes lit up. "Oh, I love this song!" He outstretched his hand. "Care to dance?"

Morris took his hand, and they stood up from their stools. "I'd love to." They danced with abandon, shaking hips and shoulders in a flurry of carefree movements, sometimes holding hands and swinging and swaying, then clapping on alternating sides and bumping asses. Morris danced with his back to Waylon's chest, bending his knees to lower himself as Waylon rolled his hips suggestively, then took his hand and twirled him around to face him. He brought an arm around his back and took the other hand in his and brought their cheeks close as they rocked to and fro, Morris stepping forward when Waylon stepped back. They moved back into a less structured dance, shimmying, then raising alternating arms into the air and snapping their fingers while propelling their hips in opposite directions.

They danced between scotch and Manhattans, dancing becoming increasingly uninhibited and suggestive. By midnight, they had tired and sat at the barstools, Waylon stroking Morris' chest and leaning his head on Morris' shoulder, then kissing and sucking his neck. He rubbed Waylon's thigh and lowered his mouth to Waylon's lips, kissing him until they both were breathless. When they parted, Waylon said, "Let's boogie."

"I'm too tipsy and tired to dance anymore."

"No, I mean, let's boogie on out of here and rock my Chevy, if you catch my drift." He gave a low and gravelly chuckle.

"But we're parked on the street. If a cop saw us, we'd get our pictures posted in the paper."

"Then we'll go home and you can take me in my room."

Morris kissed him. "Let's do it." He slapped a few dollars in tips on the bar, lifted Waylon out of his stool and an inch off the ground, then took his hand and headed for the door, a wobble in their steps.

"Hold it," said Patty, grabbing his arm. "You're too drunk to drive. Let me drive you home." She touched Louise's shoulder. "I'm going to drive them home. I'll be back soon." She briefly kissed Louise's cheek.

They stumbled out of Patty's car, and at the doorstep, Waylon fiddled with his keys, then took a few stabs at aligning the key with the keyhole, finally getting it in and twisting it open. Morris ran his hand down Waylon's cheek and said in a whisper, "I can't wait to fuck you." They giggled in drunken anticipation, and Waylon put his index finger over Morris' mouth and shushed him.

He took Morris' hand, and they ran up the stairs, Waylon tripping a bit and Morris laying his hand on his back to keep him from losing his balance. Once they reached the top, they let go of each other's hand and staggered into his room, Morris pushing Waylon against the door, slamming it shut as he kissed him with the desperate longing of lovers about to be parted. As they kissed, Morris pressed himself against Waylon, then reached for the buttons and zipper of his pants. They pulled each other's pants down, then kicked off their shoes as they hurried for the bed, Waylon throwing himself back against the mattress, quickly followed by Morris. They took turns removing each other's shirts and underwear. Waylon reached for his nightstand drawer and pulled out some Vaseline, handed it to Morris, and said, "Fuck me. Fuck me hard."

"Your wish is my command," he said, applying the lube and granting him his wish.

They shook the bed vigorously, and Waylon's unfettered cries of ecstasy grew louder. They kissed sloppily and off-target, Morris' lips sliding down Waylon's chin.

Morris pulled him closer and came, followed shortly thereafter by Waylon.

Followed shortly thereafter by the doorknob turning.

Mrs. Smithers said, "Honey, I heard some shouting and banging noises, are you okay?" as she walked inside, then dropped the cup of tea she'd had in her hand, turned around, and shut the door as quickly as she could. Waylon and Morris froze, staring into each other's frightened eyes. They simultaneously scrambled away from each other and rushed to retrieve their clothes. Before they'd finished dressing, Mrs. Smithers called through the door, "Get dressed, then get out here. We need to talk."


	17. Chapter 17

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Seventeen**

Once they had dressed back into their clothes, Waylon tentatively turned the doorknob, then paused, his hand hovering there. "Morris, I'm scared."

Morris clasped his hand over Waylon's and helped him turn the knob. "It's okay, baby. I'm scared, too."

They opened the door to find Mrs. Smithers standing there with her hand over her eye, clutching at her forehead. Her head was lowered, facing the ground. "We'll talk in the kitchen," she said, wiping a tear from her eye and descending the stairs.

Once the three were seated at the kitchen table, she said, "Just be grateful your father wasn't here to see you."

"He's never been here to see me."

"Sorry. I meant Winton."

"Did you?"

"Waylon. Is this the kind of life you want?"

"Yes, mother! I'm in love!" He took Morris' hand and rested them on the table. "I love Morris, I love him more than I can say, and he loves me."

"He was doing a hell of a lot more than 'loving' you!"

"He makes me feel better than anything else in the world. He makes me feel loved. More than you ever have."

She shut her eyes tightly and swallowed, her saliva sticking in her throat like an Oscar stuck in a toilet. "I have tried to be patient with you. I've tried to understand. I've tried to help you in every way I can, and I've done nothing but fail you. I never should have accepted that money; I should have let you keep seeing Dr. Wexler."

"This isn't a sickness; psychiatrists can't 'cure' it. This is the way I am, mother, and this is the way I'll always be. And you're going to have to accept that, sooner or later."

"I'm not going to give up on you. You can still have a normal life."

"No, I can't. But my life is better than normal. And right now, with Morris at my side, I wouldn't trade it for any other."

"How could you let him do that to you?"

"Because it makes me feel good. Better than good."

"I want you to leave," she said to Morris. "Now. Before Winton gets back from Capital City."

"I understand," said Morris, standing.

Waylon took his hand and stood with him. "If you kick him out, you kick me out."

"Don't do this, baby," said Morris.

"I couldn't do anything else if I tried."

Mrs. Smithers looked away from them. "I see you've already made up your mind."

"Morris will call a cab. I'll go get our things. And we'll be gone." As Morris brought his things down, Waylon said, "I wish it weren't this way."

"Me, too."

"It doesn't have to be, you know."

"It does. I cannot condone what you were doing."

Once the taxi arrived, Waylon, luggage in hand, turned to his mother and said, "So this is goodbye."

"Yes. I suppose it is."

Once the taxi arrived, they packed their things inside, and the driver said, "Where to?"

"Joe's Tavern," said Morris.

"Usually at this hour, I drive people _from_ bars, not _to_ bars." He started driving. "What are you going to do, move in there?" He smirked. "Drunken homos sure get up to some strange things." They arrived at Joe's.

They climbed into the car after transferring their belongings, and Waylon sat at the wheel, letting his forehead fall to the top of the wheel. Morris rubbed his nearest shoulder, kneading out the knots with a strong grip. "Mmm..." He arched his head back. "That feels amazing."

"She'll come around eventually. You said she's a sweetheart, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"They just need time to learn to accept us. But they will. I can tell she loves you. My parents love me too, and they wouldn't let something like this get in the way of that for long. I know they wouldn't."

They entered the bar and arranged to live with Wyatt until their apartment was ready.

* * *

"And here's the lunch room," said Morris, guiding Waylon through the halls of the Springfield Palace of Fine Arts to a narrow room with a mini-fridge by the door and a long table running down the center, leading to a counter with a coffee machine beside a sink and a cupboard overhead. At one of the chairs sat a man with shoulder-length brown hair and a thick mustache. "And this is Mike. He's a docent here. Mike, this is Waylon. He's the new janitor."

"Hi, Waylon," he said, raising his hand up in greeting. "Hey, Morris, did you see that gay parade they had this weekend?"

Morris smiled. "As a matter of fact, I was in–"

Waylon cut in, saying, "Invited, he was invited to go watch by a college friend, but he was busy, uh, painting."

"Really?" said Mike. "I thought I'd seen him there."

Waylon said hurriedly, "Yeah, well, it must have been somebody else."

"Well, you shoulda seen it, it was outta sight. They had a line of people with signs, a big letter on each one so it spelled out, 'gays united to liberate Springfield,' and then they changed places so it said, 'sultry indefatigable intrepid egos.' Trippy shit, man. I don't know how they managed to keep it straight."

"It's a mystery, all right, now, Morris, weren't you going to show me the janitor's closet?"

"Really? I would've thought you'd already found the janitor's closet."

They stepped outside, and once they were in the janitor's closet, Waylon shut the door and said, "Were you really just going to tell him?"

"Yeah. Now that my parents know, I'm done hiding who I am."

"But if people know you are, then they'll figure out I am, too."

"Relax, Mike's all right."

"That's not the point. The more people know about you, the more people know about me."

"I know it's terrifying at first, but trust me, it's so freeing to not have to hold back a huge part of yourself everywhere you go."

"I don't think I'd find it so freeing to be fired. I'm not spending the rest of my life working in this museum, and the corporate world isn't exactly a bastion of free love."

"Maybe you should use your business acumen to start your own business that's more open and accepting."

"Maybe someday. But I've always felt more comfortable as a follower than a leader."

"I think most of us have felt that way at some point. But you don't have to lead other people. You just have to find the courage to lead yourself."

"Maybe someday. But not today."

"Waylon, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a closet."

"And you think I want to? No, but if I want to succeed in business, I don't have any other choice."

"Okay. If it means that much to you, I'll keep a lid on it," he said, stroking behind Waylon's ear. He stepped out of the closet. "Check you later."

* * *

Waylon pushed a mop across the floor of the Springfield Palace of Fine Arts at the start of his shift as janitor that early autumn evening as Morris came off his shift. "Hey," he said, giving Waylon's shoulder a pat. "How's your day been?"

"About what you'd expect. Tired, though. I stayed up all night working on my projects for my Business Analytics and Managing Operations classes, then I had exams in Microeconomics and Victorian Literature, then I came here."

"You never came to bed last night? I assumed you'd just gotten up early." He rubbed Waylon's shoulder. "Poor baby." Waylon pulled back and gave him that not-in-public look. "Oh, come on. There isn't a soul in sight. It's not like I was kissing you."

At the sound of footfalls, he said, "Not a soul in sight, huh?"

"Well, not yet." He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. "I thought you finished your projects last week."

"I did, but then I realized I'd forgotten to cross-reference it. That, and I made a couple of typos, so I typed them up again a couple of times until they were perfect."

"Why didn't you just use correction fluid?"

"I did, but it bothered me knowing the errors were still there, just concealed by a thin layer of titanium and solvent."

Morris rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You wouldn't be so sleep-deprived if you'd just relax your standards a bit. Not everything needs to be perfect."

"No, not everything. But I need to be. I need to get good recommendations so I can get a good job so we can move into someplace nice. Save up for a house. I have to prove myself as effectual and efficient in the business world."

"Staying up all night re-typing a paper that would be just fine with two minutes applying white-out hardly sounds efficient."

"Okay, so I'm not particularly good at _being_ efficient, but I'm good at planning things so _other_ people are maximally efficient." He leaned his mop against the wall. "Besides, you're one to talk. Half the time I get home, you're still up painting."

"My appendicitis put me out of commission for almost a month, and with my exhibition coming up, I need to work overtime to finish my pieces in time."

"They look finished to me."

"Yes, but I just have to tweak some things, add a few layers, a few new brushstrokes here or there."

"And you're standing there chastising me for being a perfectionist. You're as bad as I am, maybe worse."

"I have some bad news." He drew in a deep breath. "We got the hospital bills. I've been crunching the numbers, and between my student loan repayments and the rent... I don't know how we're going to make ends meet." He took out a piece of paper with some figures and showed it to him.

"Oh, God. You're right, we're screwed." He bit his lower lip. "I guess I have no choice. I'll have to quit school."

"No, I'm sure we can find a way out of this so you won't have to do that. I can take a night job."

"But you need that time to paint!"

"I did. Now I need that time to support you and your career."

"What about _your_ career?"

"My career is curating right here. Let's face it, I'm not going to make it big on the art scene. But you can succeed in business. I believe in you."

"And I believe in _you_. You're a fantastic painter. I know you'll go far, and I can't stand in the way of you pursuing your passion."

"It wouldn't be forever. Just until you finish school."

"But there's buzz about your upcoming exhibition, and art big shots are going to be looking out for your work. You can't take a break now, or you could miss your big break, and I don't want to hold you back." Morris opened his mouth to interject and was interrupted. "I insist. I can go back to finish my degree in a year or so. Now, go home and paint."

"You're the best accountant friend a guy could have," said Morris, smiling. Waylon blushed. "Accountant friend" was Morris' codeword for "boyfriend," just as "artist friend" was Waylon's. "Tonight, I'm making enchilada casserole for you to heat up when you get home."

"Sounds delish. You know, I've never felt so lucky to have an artist friend like you who would be so willing to sacrifice his dreams to help me out."

They felt a powerful urge to hug each other goodbye but instead embraced with their eyes. "Well, I guess I should get going," said Morris, glancing at the floor.

"I'll see you later."

Morris placed his hand over the back of Waylon's, causing him to open his eyes wide until Morris turned his hand around, held him palm-to-palm, and shook. "I'll be waiting for you."

"I'll be thinking of you."

At that, Morris turned and left. As he rounded the corner of the hall, Mr. Burns ambled into the gallery area Waylon was mopping in.

"Mr. Burns, what a pleasant surprise!" He leaned his mop against the wall again.

Burns' eyes widened as he turned to face him. "Oh, Waylon, my boy!"

"What are you doing here? The gallery is closed."

"Not for Monty Burns, it isn't."

"Ah ha, I wouldn't dream of keeping you out."

"Enjoying your carefree college days, I trust?"

"Actually, sir, I'm dropping out."

"Why would you do such a thing? Don't tell me you've begun 'grooving' on ganja!"

"What? No, sir. Definitely not. It's because my parents decided to stop paying for it. That's why I'm working here." Burns looked to the mop and to his gray janitorial uniform. "And I can't afford tuition and rent on Morris' and my salaries."

"Morris?"

"Oh! He's my artist friend. We got an apartment together after my parents kicked me out."

"Why the devil would they do that?"

"I didn't want to marry my fiancée."

"Ah, I see now. You got some nice piece of tail at college and your old girlfriend isn't doing it for you anymore, is that it?"

"Yes, actually."

"You did the right thing. You're much too young to settle for the first thing in a skirt to look your way. You need to play the field first."

"I'm glad you see it that way, sir."

Mr. Burns shifted his attention to the statues. "Remarkable. Look at them, Waylon – strapping young men, immortalized in marble for us to enjoy centuries later. Mmm. Handsome, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir, they are very handsome."

"If I looked like that, I could have any woman I wanted. Ah, well. With all my millions, I can have _almost_ any woman I want." They stood admiring the statues together. "You're an intelligent young man, and you don't belong here, dusting and mopping after the dregs of society. You should be dusting and mopping after the upper echelons of society. Come work for me as an intern, and I shall fund your education."

"Oh, sir, do you really mean it? I get to work for you, and you'll pay for my college? It's a dream come true..."

"Now come along with me. I need to teach you my filing system."

"But sir... I'm in the middle of my shift. Shouldn't I give my boss the usual two weeks notice?"

"My dear Smithers, _I_ am your boss now, and I say you're coming with me," he said, taking Smithers' arm by the elbow.

Grinning gleefully, he said, "Yes, sir!" and followed along, his heart racing, for his chest was brimming with that nervous, elated energy that made him feel as though he were running full-speed toward his destiny.


	18. Chapter 18

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Eighteen**

"You just walked out of there?"

"I guess I did."

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"He insisted I leave with him immediately."

"You were there on my recommendation, and you flaked out."

"You're making a big deal about nothing. I was a janitor, not a CEO. They're not going to fall apart without me."

"You're always harping about professionalism, spending half an hour getting dressed in that new suit of yours –"

"It's not new. Mr. Burns gave it to me when I was in high school."

"You spend so much time trying to look smart every morning, but deserting your job isn't very professional."

"It is when Mr. Burns says it is."

"God, I am so sick of hearing that man's name."

"Well, you're going to be hearing plenty about him, because we're going to his eightieth birthday party this Sunday."

"Aren't you afraid me being there will tip him off that we're a couple of fags?"

"Don't be so negative. He asked me to bring you."

"How does he know who I am? You usually try so hard to keep me a secret."

"I told him we're living together. He asked me specifically to bring my 'artist friend' with me." He smiled inwardly. "He's an art lover, too. I should show you his collection sometime. That is, if he'll let me. But I'm sure he will; he loves to show off."

"Does he actually expect us to bring him a gift?"

"That's the respectful thing to do at a birthday party."

"You're kidding. He's a millionaire; he could buy and sell our asses a thousand times over."

"You only turn eighty once. Or in the case of most people, never."

"You better not get anything too expensive."

"Don't worry. I have something I know he'll love, and it won't cost us a dime."

* * *

"Why don't you go on home? I'll leave after I help tidy things," said Waylon to Morris as the last guests departed the mansion ballroom.

"How long do you think you'll be?"

"No more than an hour."

"Okay, then, I guess, call me if you need a ride."

"Warren will take me home." Seeing the lack of recognition in his face, he clarified, "Mr. Burns' chauffeur."

"When you get home, will you help me make my bed?"

"I would love to," he said, grinning shyly to the ground, contemplating not chores but the activities they euphemistically alluded to.

"I'll see you then," he said, heading out the door.

"Your friend seems nice," said Mr. Burns, who startled Smithers by so stealthily approaching him from behind. "You should beware. Nice men are liars, doormats, or weak links who'll only hold you back."

"Not Morris. He's special."

"Well, I'm glad you finally found a friend. Now you won't have to pester me with your personal problems."

"What about my father?"

"What about him?"

"Was my father not nice?"

"He was the nicest fellow I've ever known."

"So, which was he?"

"Which what?"

"Was he a liar, a doormat, or a weak link?" When Burns failed to answer his question after thirty seconds or so, he said, "Well?"

"No." He clutched at the leather-bound composition book in his arm. "He was special." He opened the book and read the first page. "Thank you. Your present was the best."

"I know it meant a lot to you."

"It must mean a lot to you, too."

"It does. But I've read it so many times, and I have several copies I typed up. I thought, 'if it were my best friend's diary, I'd want to see it.'" He scooted a chair in and straightened the tablecloth. "I'd better get to clearing these tables."

"Forget it; my maids will take care of it. Sit with me by the fire for a bit."

"Oh, um, sure."

They sat opposite each other beside the fire. "What kinds of things did he write about?"

"He wrote a lot about the plant. The design, construction, that whole process."

"Ah, yes. Those were hectic years."

"He wrote about you, of course."

With an affected disinterest, he said, "Oh, did he?"

"I felt like I got to know you better in the pages of his diary than in the months I worked for you."

"He didn't make me out to be some softhearted Samaritan, did he?"

"Were you?"

"Pish posh. I've never heard anything more absurd." He flipped the diary open to a random page. "'When I showed Monty the completed reactor, his face filled with a boyish glee. He even jumped up and down. It was quite the change from his initial reaction when I proposed opening the plant. Judging by his response, I had successfully allayed his initial concerns about the safety of a nuclear reactor...'"

"I couldn't believe you were concerned. You're always preaching the virtues of nuclear power, including its safety."

"Statistically, it is the safest." _Of course, statistics aren't worth a damn when it's your loved one who perishes._

"Happy birthday, Monty." It was his first time addressing him by his given name.

"I suppose you'll be running off soon, leaving me alone here."

"Oh, no – I can stay awhile."

"It's been so long since I've known the touch of a woman."

"I thought you said that between your wealth and good looks, you could have almost any woman you want."

"I never said anything about my looks."

"Any woman who rejects you is a fool."

"A soulless platitude that doesn't make sleeping in a cold bed any easier." He stared directly into Smithers' eyes. "You look so much like your father when he was young."

"Do you think about him often?"

"The past is the past. What difference does it make what I think about now? It won't bring him back. What's the point in hurting?" He was visibly smothering his sorrow in anger, and Smithers approached him and put his hand on his shoulder. Burns recoiled. "Smithers! Don't touch me!"

"Sir, I only meant to –"

"Yes, yes."

"Sometimes... sometimes, Monty, the point in hurting is to know you're not alone in hurting."

"Who says I'm hurting?"

"You don't have to hurt. I'll hurt for you." He sat on the floor beside Burns' chair, the top of his head brushing against Burns' fingertips. His heart fluttered when Burns ran his hand through his hair, and he leaned slightly into his touch.

"You would have loved him. He would do anything for you."

"Then why did he leave me?"

"Well, you see... that mask he retrieved would have fetched an obscenely high price at auction. He planned to use the money to ensure you'd be set for life. I've tried to sell it, but I couldn't bear to part with it any more than I can bear to look at it." They sat in silence for a few minutes. "Make me a martini."

"Yes, sir." He came back with two martinis, one for each. Smithers pulled the other chair nearer to Burns and sat.

After a couple of sips, Burns said, "So, what have you been getting up to in college? Have you joined any student societies?"

"No, no, I'm not part of any student group. Besides the Alpha Tau fraternity. But I haven't done much with them since last year. I made some friends there, though. These days, I mostly keep busy with school and work."

They drank and talked, discussing things that had happened in the last two years. "So that was my last attempt at baking a cake. I swear, that timer was as quiet as a union leader who spoke out a few times too many. Good thing the firefighters arrived in the nick of time before my kitchen was set aflame."

"I'm glad you liked the cake I made." He sipped his third martini. "Time. Oh, no! What time is it?"

Mr. Burns pulled out a pocket watch. "Ten-thirty."

"Oh, my stars and garters! I need to get home." He set his martini down quickly, some of the alcohol sloshing out as the base wobbled on the table.

"What's the hurry?"

"I... have some chores to attend to."

"Very well. I'll summon Warren."

When he arrived back in the apartment, he went to their bedroom, where he saw Morris lying in the dark, cuddling with his blankets, his back facing the door. Waylon gingerly stepped toward their bed, then reached over and rubbed his shoulder as he sat beside him. "I'm so sorry I'm late. But I'm here, now, love."

"You said you'd be home an hour ago."

"I'm so sorry, but Mr. Burns needed me, and –"

"You've been drinking."

"I had a little."

"Smells like more than a little," he said, taking a whiff of the words he'd breathed. "Where were you?"

"With Mr. Burns."

"Uh-huh. And he just let you drink on the job?"

"Yes."

"Come on. I'm not stupid."

"It's the truth!"

"How can you expect me to believe that? You tell me to scram, then you spend two hours out drinking, and I'm supposed to think you were just working?"

"Mr. Burns and I share drinks every so often, so what? It's not like I was doing office work drunk; I was just picking up after the party guests." He waited for a response. "Come on, let me show you how sorry I am." He kissed his cheek and stroked his chest, hugging him from behind.

"I'm not in the mood anymore."

He nibbled at the base of his ear and whispered, "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

He sucked at his neck. "How about now?" He whispered into his ear, "Your neck isn't what I really want to suck," then went back to attending to his neck.

"Shit, Waylon." He arched his neck back. "You're such a manipulative bastard."

"I take that as a 'yes,'" he said, pulling down Morris' pajama pants.

As he got to work, Morris said, "Y-yes..."


	19. Chapter 19

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter 19**

Waylon disembarked the private jet on the tarmac of John F. Kennedy Airport with Burns' and his luggage in his hands as the thick, muggy air of a New York City summer caressed their faces. Once inside, he guided Mr. Burns to a chair and set their luggage down beside him. "Just sit tight while I go find our limo." He took off, first for the stained-glass facade of Terminal 8. He scanned the crowd, then, spotting Morris, his eyes brightened and he waved.

They approached each other rapidly, then just stopped short of hugging each other, Waylon putting a hand each on the back of his neck and in his pocket while Morris let his arms fall to his sides, clutching more tightly the art portfolios in his hands and saying, "So, how was flying on a private jet?"

"Luxurious. How was your flight?"

"Cramped, and a kid behind me kept kicking my chair."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Anyway, I'm too excited about meeting with the gallery director to care. Do you know how big this is?" Before he could respond, Morris said, "It's huge!"

"I'm glad your art is getting some recognition. It's deserved. You use such vibrant colors, and there is so much passion in it. It's a nice change from those austere abstract paintings that are in vogue."

"You mean minimalist painting? I appreciate it. It's just not my style."

"Well, I'm really excited for you."

"This must be exciting for you, too, going to your first conference."

"It is. I finally feel like I'm a part of the world of businessmen."

"So, I'll meet you at the hotel?"

"No, come take the limo with us."

"Are you sure Mr. Burns won't mind?"

"Uh... I'm sure he'll want to talk to you, find out more about you." He looked back to where Mr. Burns sat, twiddling his fingers against his suitcase while looking absentmindedly up at the ceiling. "Let's get going." They walked up to Mr. Burns, and Waylon gathered up their luggage. "Sir, would it be all right if Morris rode along with us to the hotel?"

"Hm? Oh, your artist friend! I've heard so much about you," he said, shaking his hand. "I like your art. It's bold, yet... alluring. I am sure Mr. Stafford will agree."

"I'm really grateful that you put in a good word for me," said Morris. "I hope it's a good sign the gallery is called 'Blue Chrysanthemum.' The chrysanthemum is my favorite flower."

"Ah, there's the chauffeur now!" said Burns as he stepped swiftly toward a man holding up a sign that bore his name. Waylon struggled with the bags and followed behind Morris to the limousine. "Step on it, Smithers!"

"He's trying; he just has a lot to carry."

The porter took their luggage, and they entered the limousine, first Mr. Burns, then Waylon, then Morris. _A week in New York with my two favorite people. Just two years ago, I couldn't imagine my life would be this good._ He felt like tearing up at the thought of how rough things had been and how much better they'd gotten, but he kept his face as unperturbed as moon dust. He shifted his eyes furtively to Morris and smiled, then shifted his forearm close enough to touch.

Mr. Burns gazed out the window while Waylon gazed at him, taking in the sight of the aged man and his distinguished yet rugged good looks. _There's no harm in looking. It's not like I have a chance with him, anyway._ He looked back to Morris, studied his face and physique. _Yes, he's still sexy. I wouldn't cheat on him if the opportunity presented itself... I think._ He felt a knot in his stomach. _Morris is the best thing that's happened to me. This is ridiculous; I'm not in love with an eighty-year-old man. Even if I did leave Morris for him, I'd have what, five years with Mr. Burns before he..._ He ran his thumb and index finger anxiously over Morris' class ring on his right hand. _But that doesn't even matter anyway, because Mr. Burns probably doesn't want me that way. And even if he did, I love Morris, and I wouldn't throw that away for the sake of a pipe dream._

When they arrived at the entrance of the Roosevelt Hotel, as the bellhop carted their luggage to their rooms, they ascended a short, wide stair, red rug draped over the steps, toward a glorious chandelier hung high over the center of the lobby like a beacon beckoning them forth. Burns took a two-bedroom Presidential Suite, and Waylon and Morris took a room with two double beds.

"Here is our schedule," said Mr. Burns in the hall by the elevator, handing Waylon several sheets of paper specifying their activities and his duties. "Memorize it and be prepared."

"No problem, sir."

Once they arrived at the floor Waylon's and Morris' room was located and Waylon stepped out of the elevator with him, Mr. Burns turned him sharply by the shoulder. "You neglected to read item one of your schedule."

He looked down at the top of the first page: _Help Mr. Burns get settled in his suite._ "Oh. I'll be right there, Morris," he said, stepping back inside the elevator. "I need to help Mr. Burns unpack."

"Check you later," said Morris, turning to go to their room.

Waylon opened the door for Mr. Burns and led him to a chair. Burns' difficulty easing himself into a sitting position was evident, so Waylon rushed to his side and took his arm by the elbow, steadying him as he lowered himself to the seat cushion. "Nothing like sitting for two hours in a private jet to make one's back act up." He'd been reclining in a cushioned seat the whole trip, but Waylon was unsure whether Burns' discomfort stemmed more from physical frailty or from his being accustomed to luxurious treatment.

"If your back is sore, sir, I happen to be a skilled masseuse." He wasn't, so he wasn't quite sure why he'd claimed it. Or rather, he knew the reason but couldn't face it.

"I just may take you up on that offer." He stood with apparent ease and walked to the window and drew the curtains open to bring the New York skyline to the room. "This suite is as pristine as the last time I stayed here."

"It's very nice."

"Well, what the devil are you waiting for?"

"Oh! Yes, sir." He got to unpacking Burns' possessions, starting with his medications, as Burns headed for his bed and laid himself upon it.

Lying on his side, elbow on pillow as he cradled his cheek in his hand and watched him unpack, he said, "So, how long have you and Morris been together?"

Waylon dropped the pill bottle in his hand. "What?"

"How long have you been living together?"

"Oh. A year."

"Well, now that he's breaking into the art world, he'll probably move here, and you'll have the apartment to yourself."

Waylon felt his stomach rise as if he were riding a rapidly falling elevator. "Oh, yeah. That'd be nice, to have the place to myself." Desperately wishing to confide his anxieties about their relationship, he said, "But I don't know what I'd do without his company." He went back to unpacking Burns' belongings, placing carefully folded clothes into the bureau drawers and sorting them according to garment type.

"Rubbish. I'm all the company you need."

"I just consider myself lucky to have two great friends like you in my life."

"It's easy to be kind to such a capable employee as you." _Too easy. Much too easy for comfort._ Waylon paused, holding up one of Burns' ties. He sat up rapidly. "But you have your own things to unpack. Go to your room."

"But sir, I still haven't finished –"

"Do as I say!" Waylon froze, taken aback at the request to attend to himself first. "You are dismissed, Smithers."

"Yes, sir," he said, backing out of the room.

When he opened the door to his and Morris' room, Morris greeted him with a smile from his bed. "Hey, sexy."

He sat on the side of Morris' bed, then leaned over his side to kiss him. "When do you meet with Mr. Stafford tomorrow?"

"Ten. I'm catching the subway at 50th Street and taking it to the West 4 Street Station."

"Just promise me you'll be careful," he said, stroking the back of his head. "This city could eat a couple of country boys like us alive."

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Country boys? Springfield may be small, but it's not like we live in the sticks."

"I'm just saying, this city is dangerous, so you should be careful."

"You worry too much."

"I'm just concerned about your safety, is all." He kissed Morris' lips, then stood and got to unpacking his bag.

"When are you leaving for the reception?"

"Whenever Mr. Burns tells me to."

"Will you come back to me when I tell you to?"

He removed his jacket, tossed it on his bed behind him, and pulled him up by the elbows into a hug. "I'll always come back to you."

"You promise?" He said softly against Waylon's ear.

"I promise." The phone rang, and Waylon picked it up and brought it to his ear while still embracing Morris. "Hello?"

"Smithers, I need you."

"I'll be there right away, sir," he said, disengaging himself from Morris and hurrying to hang up the phone and put on his jacket. "I've got to go," he said, rushing for the door, a smile on his face.

"Enjoy the reception." Before he'd finished the sentence, Waylon was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty**

That night at the conference reception, they drank and talked, Burns introducing his assistant to his business associates. They rode back to the hotel in a rented limousine, sipping martinis as they crawled through crowded streets to 45th and Madison. Waylon said, "I think tonight went well."

"You did splendidly, Smithers. Yes, you'll make a fine businessman." He sipped. "You have the competence and charisma of an executive, but the obedience of a lowly ant. It's a very rare and attractive combination."

"Thank you, sir," Smithers said with a blush. "You were quite charismatic yourself, as usual."

"Mm... this takes me back to the first time I stayed here, back in 1927. I visited a few speakeasies and took in a show. It was a new musical, Show Boat. It impressed me, and I became something of a devotee of the theatrical arts."

"That's how I felt when I saw Cabaret. I'd always loved theatre, but that day I realized it was truly special."

"You know, in my suite I have a film projector and a collection of films, including a number of musicals. We could watch one tonight."

"I'd love to!"

"Excellent." He put his arm around the seat behind Smithers, and they clinked their glasses.

Once in Burns' Presidential suite, Smithers sat on the couch while Burns set up the projector. He showed Smithers several reels of films – _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ , _My Fair Lady_ , _West Side Story_ , _The Great Escape_ , _Singin' in the Rain_ , and _Swing Time_. " _My Fair Lady_ ," said Smithers, touching his fingers over the film reel. As he took it to load into the projector, Burns' fingers brushed over his, setting Smithers' nerves afire – an electrical fire of passion repeatedly flaring and being subdued only to flare again.

They watched as Henry Higgins, a professor of phonetics, coached the Cockney girl Eliza Doolittle on enunciation and etiquette.

" _I'm sorry. I'm a common, ignorant girl, and in my station I have to be careful._ _There can't be any feelings between the likes of you and the likes of me."_

As the penultimate musical number came to a close and Eliza said, "Goodbye, Mr. Higgins. You will not be seeing me again," the film jammed in the projector and caught fire. Smithers rushed for the extinguisher on the wall and smashed the glass, but Burns tutted and simply lowered the projection case over the projector, depriving the fire of oxygen, and it quickly died out. "You are smart, dear Smithers, but not quite clever."

Smithers sheepishly replaced the extinguisher in its case. "I'll go down to the lobby and get a dustpan and broom to sweep up this glass."

"No need. I pay through the nose for this room, and there are certain privileges that comes with." He picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the number for emergency service calls. "Ahoy-hoy? This is Monty Burns, and we had a little mishap involving a projector fire and some broken glass. Send someone to clean up posthaste." He set down the receiver. "They'll be up shortly."

Smithers sat on the couch as Burns went to get them some brandy. "Sir?"

"Yes?" He sat beside him and handed Smithers his glass.

"Thank you," he said, taking the glass.

Sipping his brandy, he said, "What were you going to say?"

"Oh, nothing. Just..." He swished his brandy around in the glass a bit. "No, it's nothing."

"Oh."

"I mean, I do have something I want to say. It's... It's..."

"Yes?"

"It's nothing."

"Now, you can't keep yanking my chain. Either tell me what it is you want to say or drop the subject."

"It's just that..."

"Now you must finish your thought."

"Just that – it's hard, sometimes, to say what it is you really want to say. To say how you feel."

"Is that all that's behind your doltish rambling?"

"Uh, no, sir. What I mean is, there's something I need to know from you, because I'm going crazy hanging in limbo, not knowing, and I'm afraid if I don't get answers soon, I'm going to do something really stupid and screw up my life forever, if I'm not about to do that right now. So there's something I need to ask you, right now. Something I need to tell you. Mr. Burns, I –" The clean-up crew knocked and then opened the door, then swept the glass and hauled the projector away.

"Now, what was it you were going to say?"

"Monty..." He fought off a tear as he stared into Burns' eyes with desperation.

"Yes, Waylon?"

His heart galloped at hearing his first name. It used to be so routine, Mr. Burns calling him by his first name. Back then, it made him feel young. Now, it made him feel older, on par with Burns himself. An equal. "Do you think an ignorant flower girl really could stand a chance of getting the attention of a distinguished, upper crust gentleman?"

"Why, my dear lad, with hard work and a cheerful disposition, it's not only possible – it's probable."

"Thank you, sir. That helps." He glanced at the clock. "11:30! I'd better get to my room, now, before I disturb Morris."

"Very well. I suppose I should retire now." As Mr. Burns settled under the covers in the bedroom, Smithers approached the door. "Smithers!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't forget item forty-seven on your schedule."

"Forty-seven, forty-seven..."

"Bring me my slippers. 6 a.m. sharp."

"Absolutely. Good night, Monty."

* * *

Waylon set his jacket on the coat hook by the door as he returned to the hotel room from the conference the next morning. "So, how'd it go?" he said, looking over his shoulder to Morris, who grinned rapturously. "Well, I take it."

"Not only will he be featuring my work in his gallery, but he's also commissioned me to paint a portrait of him for the gallery lobby. He's paying me fifteen thousand dollars!"

"I'm so glad for you, Morris," he said, hugging him tightly and swaying him back and forth. "I knew you had it in you to succeed as an artist."

"How about you? I wasn't expecting you back this early."

"Mr. Burns only wanted us to attend the morning panel on NRC regulation compliance. He said he had some business to attend to in the city this afternoon, but that it didn't concern me."

He picked up the phone as it rang, but before he could say "hello," Mr. Burns said, "Smithers! I want tea."

"Anything for you, sir!" He hung up and headed for the door.

"He's really got you under his thumb."

"He's my boss. I have to do what he tells me."

"But do you have to do it with such alacrity?"

"Would you rather I lurched around like some dour, sour drone?"

"You really enjoy your job, don't you?"

"It's a good job." He moved toward the door, and Morris stepped between him and the door.

"That's all it is to you, a job?"

"...No. Mr. Burns is also my friend and mentor."

"That's all he is to you?"

"Yes, of course – why would you think anything different?"

"Well, you –"

"He's almost 81 years old, for God's sake!"

"I know, but the way you look at him reminds me of the way you used to look at me." Waylon's eyes grew anxious and sad. "You think he's attractive, don't you?" Waylon stared fixedly ahead. "He turns you on, doesn't he?" Waylon's face flushed, giving Morris all the answers he sought. Morris' eyes darted to the floor as he nodded slightly and solemnly. "That's what I thought."

He grabbed his hands and drew them to his heart. "Morris, I love you!"

"Do you love me enough?"

"Yes! Yes, of course I do! I love you more than anything else," he said, caressing his forehead, brushing his bangs out of the way.

"Then will you quit your job for me?"

"What?"

"I'm making more than enough money. We can get a little apartment in the Village, and you can transfer to NYU's business school, and –"

"You're getting carried away. I can't count on being accepted to NYU."

"But you're a fantastic student and businessman! And with Mr. Burns' recommendation, you'd be a shoe-in. I believe in you."

"That's very nice, but I don't know... I'll have to think it over."

"What is there to think over? Our lives will improve in every way. Springfield U is a good school, but NYU – that name recognition means a lot in the business world, and you'll make even more powerful connections. How could this possibly be a hard decision to make?"

"Springfield is the only home I've known; it's where I lived my whole life."

"And look at all you suffered for it. I don't know how a guy who went through what you did could be nostalgic for that crap-hole. Maybe you love Springfield, but Springfield doesn't love you. Doesn't love us. If I never saw Springfield again, it would be too soon."

"I know you're right, but..."

"But you don't want to leave Mr. Burns."

"No, no, that's not it at all!"

"It is. Face it."

"No, I'm just reluctant to cut ties with my mother."

"You could still write to her."

"I could, couldn't I?" He slowly began to nod, then gripped Morris' biceps in his hands. "Okay. We'll do it. We'll move to New York." He patted Morris' upper arms a couple of times, then left for Burns' suite.

The phone rang, and Morris picked it up. "Smithers! Where are you? I want my tea!"

Morris frowned, then said, "He just left to get you your damn tea, you rotten old bastard!" and slammed it on the hook.

When Waylon arrived back, his brows furrowed in fury, he said, "What did you say?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you?"

"No. When I got there, he was shaking under his covers. He said you cursed him. He looked terrified."

"I called him a bastard. A rotten old bastard."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because that's what he is! He's a mean old bastard, and you can't see it because he makes you hard."

"You take that back! He is _not_ a bastard!"

"All I see him do is yell at you, tell you to do better when you're doing better than anyone else would. You obviously don't love yourself as much as I love you if that doesn't bother you!"

"There's more to him than you see."

"But you do see?"

"Yes."

"And why is that?"

"He doesn't like to show people his true feelings. He's been hurt." He picked up a cup and filled it with water, then sipped. "I'm not the only one who sees good in him; my father did, too."

"Do you love him?"

Waylon choked on his water. "He's almost 81 years old."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, Morris. If I loved him, I wouldn't be quitting my job. If I loved him, I wouldn't be moving to New York with you. If I loved him... If I did love him... Well, I don't, so what's the use of wond'rin'?"

He sighed in relief, then stood and took Waylon's hands and swung them back and forth as he leaned in and kissed his lips. "I've never been happier."

"Have you had lunch yet?"

"No, I'm meeting Mr. Stafford in an hour. Feel free to come with."

"Are you sure I wouldn't be intruding?"

"No, no. He wants to meet you."

"How does he know who I am?"

"I told him about you."

"How much did you tell him?"

"Just that you're my roommate." Waylon breathed a sigh of relief. "My inspiration." Waylon bit his lower lip a bit. "My better half." Waylon gulped. "Relax, baby. He's all right. He has lots of gay friends in the Village."

He frowned at Morris. "I just hope he keeps his mouth shut to Mr. Burns."

"He's not an asshole. He wouldn't out you."

" _You_ outed me."

"Only after I knew he was okay." He rubbed Waylon's wrist. "Let me know when you're ready to go, and we'll go."

"I don't think I want to."

"Come on, baby."

"I don't know..."

"For me?"

"Okay. For you." He opened the door and motioned for Morris to go first.


	21. Chapter 21

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

A subway ride later, they walked a few blocks north up the Avenue of the Americas then west on Waverly Place. As they passed the sign for Gay Street, Waylon visibly tensed up and increased the distance between Morris and himself. "Relax, we're almost there." They turned onto Christopher Street.

"Is it much further?"

"No, not much at all."

They walked inside Bagel Place, and Morris spotted Mr. Stafford, who took notice of them and waved. He was a short, thin man in his early forties wearing an elegant black Italian suit and sporting a graying black pompadour and a horseshoe mustache, sitting at a small round table. He waved and smiled back, and Waylon tentatively waved back. Mr. Stafford stood and said in an English accent, "Hello, Morris, how is my favorite new artist?" and shook his hand. "And Waylon, it's a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand to Waylon, who was caught off guard and limply shook.

"You'll have to excuse him; he's a bit nervous."

"Oh? Why is that? Am I really that intimidating?"

"No, no. It's just, he doesn't get yet that he's not in Kansas anymore."

"Ah, I see." He looked down at the menu the waitress handed him. "I'll have the pastrami on an onion bagel with the chives cream cheese."

"And you, sir?" said the waitress to Morris.

"I'd like a bagel with lox and cream cheese."

"And you, sir?" she said to Waylon.

"Um... I'd like pastrami on rye with garlic and herb cream cheese."

"We'll have that right up in a jiffy," she said, gathering the menus and walking back to the counter.

Mr. Stafford leaned back in his chair and said, "You know, this used to be a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. You may have heard of it."

"Mister, I don't know what Morris told you, but we're just friends!"

"Right, right. And I get Playboy for the articles." He took a swig of his water. "Son, you don't have to get so wound up. You're among friends."

"You mean, you..."

"No, I'm happily married. But many of my best friends are gay. A lot of people around here are. And there are straight people who think it's a damn shame the way society treats you, and there are more of us every day."

"I'd really rather not discuss this."

"That's understandable," he said, sipping his water.

Morris' lips brimmed with anticipation as he finally spoke, "Waylon and I are moving to New York!"

"Wonderful! You'll find many opportunities as an artist here. There's truly no place better for an artist to be, except for Paris." The waitress brought out their bagels. "Thank you, dear," he said, then after taking a bite, said, "So, Morris tells me you want to be a businessman."

"That's right, sir."

"You know, managing an art gallery is a fine business to get into. Artists need businesspeople to manage that end of things so they can concentrate on creating. Have you thought about going into the art business?"

"I have now."

"Because I'm looking for someone to learn the ropes and eventually take over the gallery when I can't run it anymore, and Morris was raving about your intelligence and work ethic."

"He's right, but how do you know he isn't lying?"

"I gave Mr. Burns a ring. His report, if anything, was more glowing."

"Really? What did he say about me?"

"He said he's never been so impressed by a young man, that you have a great future ahead of you. He called you the second cleverest man he's had in his employ."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. He said you were special to him."

"He said that? To another person?"

"I think he said it to himself. I just happened to hear him."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you? About me and Morris? How we... are?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "What do you take me for, a gossipy flibbertigibbet?" Before he could respond, he said, "I am more sensitive to your plight than that."

"My plight?"

"You know..."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. I just don't think of my, uh, situation like that. It's hard to feel oppressed when I'm so happy."

"As well you should be. I don't think I have to tell you this is an opportunity few men as young as yourself are ever offered."

"Thank you, sir. I'll definitely consider it."

"I hope you do."

"Morris thinks I have a shot at transferring to NYU."

"A shot? Between Mr. Burns' recommendation and, from what I hear, your impeccable grades, your acceptance is assured. I'll show you to the campus later. They relocated to the Village last year or so."

After lunch, they walked through Greenwich Village, Mr. Stafford pointing out various locales – places he recommended to get food, to get coffee, to get furniture, to get records, to get clothes, to get books, to get a beer, to get a haircut. He would tell them about the proprietors of various shops and the salient facts about them. It stunned both Waylon and Morris to hear this straight man so casually mention that Victor was the boyfriend of Randy and speak of them as any other couple, a couple he'd invited home to dinner with him and his wife.

"And this is the flower shop I go to," he said, pointing to a green sign with gold lettering reading "Miguel's Flowers" that hung from an awning of the same colors. "I always buy my chrysanthemums here. I get one each week and dip it in blue ink to put in the gallery window." He opened the door, ringing a little silver bell hanging overhead. "Hello, Miguel," he said, approaching the counter and shaking his hand.

Miguel, a man in his thirties with shaggy black hair, retrieved a box and handed it to Mr. Stafford. "Here to pick up this week's chrysanthemum?" he said, speaking with a Mexican accent.

"Yes, thank you. Miguel, I want you to meet my new friends, Morris Yackey and Waylon Smithers. Morris, Waylon, this is Miguel Orosco." They shook hands and greeted each other. "Morris is the newest artist to join the Blue Chrysanthemum family."

"Oh..." he said, intrigued. "What kind of art is it you do?"

"Mostly neo-expressionist painting."

"I'd like to see it sometime."

"Then stop by the gallery. His work is going on exhibition starting in August."

"I'll have to stop by, then."

Mr. Stafford said, "Morris and Waylon are moving here shortly. Do you have any recommendations about rooms for rent?"

"I have a room above my shop for rent. But it's only one bedroom."

Morris smiled and said, "One bed is all we'll need."

Miguel's eyes brightened a bit. "You two are together?"

Waylon stammered a bit, but Morris quickly and confidently said, "Yes. Waylon is my life partner."

"Relax, Waylon," he said, noting his trembling hand and twitching lip and playfully bumping his fist against his bicep. "I'm gay, too."

"People have been telling me to relax all day, but I just keep getting more nervous."

"Have you been to Stewart's Cafeteria?" They shook their heads. "It's at Sheridan Square. Downstairs, you can eat and watch the men walk by, but upstairs is The Village Gym." He let out a low, long whistle. "If you like watching sweaty, muscular men work out – and I have a feeling you do – it's the place to be." Waylon's face turned bright red. "And if you like leather and a wild time, the Anvil is the place for you."

Morris said, "I don't think Waylon is up for a wild time tonight."

"No." Waylon's lips trembled a bit, then he blinked and tightened them steadfastly. "No, I am. I mean, I want to – to have a wild time."

"Are you sure?" said Miguel. "You seem shy, and I'm telling you, it's really wild."

"Yes. I'm completely sure."

"I mean, _really_ wild." Waylon nodded. "It's on West Fourteenth Street, by the Hudson." Turning to Mr. Stafford, he said, "Well, I've got to cut these flowers."

"Yes, it was nice seeing you," said Mr. Stafford.

* * *

"You're wearing _that_?" Morris looked in dismay as Waylon pulled out a dress shirt and pants from his suitcase.

"I didn't pack anything but business clothes. I wasn't planning to do any partying on this trip."

"You can't wear that. Here," he said, lifting a bag from the ground and pulling out a leather ensemble. "I got it for you today."

Waylon smiled and put it on, then looked himself over in the mirror by the window. "I... wow, I look good. Gives me kind of a James Dean vibe."

"So, you like it?"

"Like it? I love it."

Morris put on his own clothes, a leather jacket over a white shirt open halfway down his chest, revealing a tuft of chest hair. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. Let's go." As Morris left and Waylon was about to shut the door, the phone rang. "Just a second," he said, going to the phone.

Morris ran after him and grabbed his wrist before he could pick up the phone. "Whatever it is, it can wait. We haven't had a night out in ages, and this is going to be the time of our life."

"But what if Mr. Burns needs something?" He immediately regretted letting that name slip.

"Is Mr. Burns your life partner, or me? Will Mr. Burns hug you, make you feel wanted, spend the rest of his life with you?"

"It's my job."

"You're quitting him, anyway, so what difference does it make?"

"But I can't walk away until I do quit."

"You walked away from the museum to be with him."

"Only because he insisted."

"Well, _I_ insist."

"You're right; I'm being ridiculous. Mr. Burns can handle himself, and we're gonna have the time of our lives. Let's go." He withdrew his hand from the phone receiver and placed it on Morris' shoulder blade, guiding him out and shutting the door, the phone still ringing.

They arrived at the Anvil, looking on in desirous shock as men stripped, danced, and twirled on ropes suspended from the ceiling, another man danced in front of a fan, and some men danced naked on the bar. Waylon blushed and broke into a subdued, giddy laughter, his senses overwhelmed, then clutched Morris' hand more tightly. Morris said simply, "Wow."

"'Wow' is right." A drag queen was performing, and they went to the bar and got some beers and talked for a bit as they watched the entertainment, then got to dancing. They danced for hours, then leaned against a wall and watched the naked go-go dancers. Waylon rubbed his hand over Morris' thigh, then moved it over his crotch. When he slipped his hand inside, Morris' breath hitched, and he said, "Not in front of everyone."

"Come on, plenty of guys are doing even more. I like the idea of everyone seeing us."

"Really? Cause you sure didn't like it earlier today."

"After so long not being able to hold your hand in public, being able to hold your cock in public is the greatest thrill of my life." He slipped his hand out of Morris' pants. "Now, tell me you don't want me to keep going."

"Keep going," he said, unzipping his pants, then stopping midway. "No. I just can't, not out here."

He tilted his head slightly to one side. "It's darker in that room. Come on, let's have a wild time." Morris could only nod and trail along as Waylon took him by the hand, leading him to a darker room where other men were having sex. He went down on him for just long enough to tantalize him, then stood and unzipped his own pants. "Get ready for the ride of your life," he said, then fucked him against the wall. As he ascended to the heights of ecstasy, images of Mr. Burns flooded his mind, and he realized he had been fantasizing that it was Mr. Burns he was fucking in front of all those men.

"Oh, God! Waylon..."

"Mm... Morris." He squeezed him close and kissed him behind his ear before disengaging. While they pulled their pants back up, he said, "Were you thinking about me?"

"Of course I was thinking about you, baby. How could I not be when you're thrusting inside me?" He sighed, awash in mellow euphoria. "You were thinking about me, right?"

"Who else would I have been thinking about? Cher?" He reached his hands around his waist, underneath the leather jacket, and kissed him as intensely as he knew how. "Aren't you glad now I instigated this?"

"I admit, it was kind of thrilling. But I don't want to do it again. Not like this. I want you to myself, Waylon."

"Okay, dear. We won't do this again." He ran his hands up and down Morris' back. "I'm all yours."


	22. Chapter 22

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

Smithers spent the entire morning and afternoon manning the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant booth at the exhibit hall. Mr. Burns frequently left to chat with a prospective employee or an old business associate. After speaking with one prospective employee, he returned to the booth and put his arm around Smithers. "So, how do you like the nuclear energy sector?"

"It's interesting," he said, "but not as interesting as, say the art industry."

He slid his arm back and laid his palm on Smithers' shoulder. "You're thinking of leaving me, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that, sir?"

"Mr. Stafford clearly has his eye on you. And he'd be a fool not to hire you."

"What if I did leave?"

"What about it?"

"How would you feel about that?"

"There's nothing I could do to stop you."

"You wouldn't resent me, would you, sir? Because I'm really grateful for all you've done for me."

"Why should I resent you? It's your life; you're free to do with it as you see fit."

"I would miss you."

"Don't get sappy on me."

"But we could still visit, right? You would come to see me, or I could come to see you."

"Our paths may cross."

"And I could write letters."

"Yes, you could."

"I could call you on the phone, couldn't I?"

"You could."

"And you'd want me to write or call, wouldn't you?"

He hesitated for a moment before saying, "I would."

"Yeah. We wouldn't have to say goodbye. Just 'see you later.'"

"Speaking of 'later,' I got you something. I hope you don't have plans tonight."

"Well, I was planning to –"

"Because I got us tickets to the opening night of a new musical opening on Broadway – A Chorus Line."

"Wow! Thank you, sir!"

"And tonight, after the show, we're going dancing at the Roseland Ballroom."

Smithers' jaw dropped. "Thank you, sir..."

"Come to my suite at five today."

"It hasn't escaped my attention that none of this is on the schedule you gave me."

"That's because I didn't have the tickets until today."

"What about the Roseland Ballroom?"

"That was a whim."

After the exhibit hall had closed, they strolled back to a limousine and rode back to the hotel. It was twenty minutes to five, and so Smithers went to his and Morris' room to tell him of the change in plans. The room was empty, though, and a memo on the hotel stationery read: _Waylon – I'm checking out apartments. Final decisions will be yours, of course. Love, Morris._

He took a memo paper and started to write a note. _Morris – Mr. Burns is taking me to Broadway for a show and some dancing._ He scribbled it out. _Mr. Burns._ He crumpled up the note. _I have some errands to run for Mr._ He scribbled it out. _I've been held up in a meeting with Mr. Burns._ No, that made no sense. _Morris – I was invited to have dinner with an industry guy. Love –_ He felt sick writing that word after blatantly lying to him. _Love, Waylon._

He took the elevator on another slow ride up to Burns' suite. The door was open, so he walked inside. "Sir, you really shouldn't leave the door open. Mr. Burns?" He didn't respond. "Mr. Burns, where are you?" He looked to Burns' bedroom, saw he wasn't in there, then opened the door to the other bedroom. He examined the furnishings of the room, which looked less modern and more dusty than in the other bedroom, and picked up a pen and a cigarette case from the nightstand by the bed, inspecting them against the light.

Mr. Burns emerged from the bathroom and put his hand on Smithers' shoulder, startling him, and he rapidly set the pen and cigarette case down back onto the nightstand.

"Oh!" He flinched in shock. I didn't expect to see you, Mr. Burns. I noticed the door was open, and I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"This door was quite closed before you came here. You opened it yourself, didn't you? You've been wanting to see this room, haven't you, Smithers? Why didn't you ask me to show it to you? I've been ready to show it to you ever since we got here."

Mr. Burns inhaled long and slow, savoring the memories that hung in the air. "It's a lovely room, isn't it? The loveliest room you've ever seen. Everything is kept just as Waylon Senior liked it. _Nothing has been altered since that last night._ Come. I'll show you his bureau." He opened the topmost of the bureau drawers. "This is where I keep all his clothes. You would like to see them, wouldn't you? Feel this," he said, letting Waylon feel a silk tie. "It was a Christmas present from me. I was always giving him expensive gifts, the whole year round. _I keep his underwear on this side._ They were made specially for him by the nuclear safety technicians."

"Wait, you keep my father's belongings here... in this hotel room... in New York?"

"I've had this suite permanently on reserve ever since your father died. A prominent man such as I never wants to be caught without a reservation." He approached the window and parted the curtains. "I always used to wait up for him to leave the plant, no matter how late he stayed to work. Sometimes he didn't leave until dawn." He picked up the cigarette case on the nightstand. "While he was undressing, he'd tell me about the particle accelerator he'd been working on. He knew everything that mattered, and everyone loved him. When he'd finished his bath, he'd go into this bedroom and go over to the dressing table.

"Oh, you've moved his pen, haven't you?" He tweaked its position to a 45 degree angle – like Monty, Waylon Senior had been left-handed. "There, that's better – just as he always laid it down. 'Come on, Monty, let's have a fire drill when we get back,' he would say. I'd stand behind him like this and crunch numbers with him for twenty minutes at a time," he said, picking up a slide rule from the desk and turning it around as he looked at it. "And then he would say, 'Good night, Monty,' and step into his bed.

"I bought this undershirt for him myself, and I keep it here always," he said, pulling out a fine tailored men's undershirt from the 1940s. "Did you ever see anything so delicate? Look, you can see my hand through it." He slid his hand to the underside of the shirt's breast. "You wouldn't think he'd been gone so long, would you? Sometimes when I walk along the corridor, I fancy I hear him just behind me. That quick, light step. I couldn't mistake it anywhere. It's not only in this room. It's in all the rooms in this suite. I can almost hear it now." He looked distantly out the window, then turned back to Smithers. "Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?

"No, sir, I don't believe it."

"Sometimes I wonder if he doesn't come back home to Springfield... and watch me and you together." He set down the slide rule and cigarette case. "You look anxious. You're nervous that you've forgotten how to dance, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, that must be it."

"Why don't you stay here awhile and we'll dance... and listen to the symphony?" He set a gramophone playing Beethoven's 9th.

"This isn't a waltz, though, and you only taught me how to –"

"Nonsense. You are quite capable of dancing to this." He stepped forth, and Smithers took him in his hands and led him around the room in a spritely fashion, except for the slow parts, for which he brought Burns close to him, just short of pressing their chests together. They danced for the first and second movements before Mr. Burns turned off the music, insisting upon a break for water and rest. Smithers was glad for a break himself, and he was in peak physical condition, so he couldn't imagine how exhausted Mr. Burns must have felt after those vigorous last few minutes of the second movement. They sat on his father's hotel bed, each guzzling water from crystal, Smithers repeatedly getting up to refill their glasses.

"You never cease to amaze me," he said. "You're so thin, yet so... virile."

He smiled, a charming glint in his eye. "Well, I like to keep in shape."

"I can't believe you're single."

"Why not? You're single, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess I am."

"In any event, I am terribly hot, so draw me a bath." He sat on Waylon Senior's old bed and began to undress as Smithers started the bath running and prepared clothes for Burns to change into. When Smithers walked back into the room, he was taken aback to see him completely naked.

"I'm sorry, sir!" he said, covering his eyes and backing out of the room.

"Come, come, dear Smithers. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

"Oh, that's for sure." He shook his head. "I mean, I thought you'd like a little privacy."

"From you? Pish posh." He stood, and Smithers beheld his nudity for the first time. His lissome limbs, wrinkles etched into his skin, that slight sag of skin just above his immaculately sculpted hip bones. Mr. Burns gave a roguish grin and said, "Now, help me into the bath."

And all he could do was say, "Yes, sir," with alacrity.

Once inside the tub, Mr. Burns said, "Ah, that is better." As Smithers turned to leave the bathroom, Burns said, "Stay and wash my hair."

"You want me to wash your hair?"

"With the arthritis in my hands, it's not terribly comfortable to do it myself."

"Oh, of course, sir." He cupped water in his hands to wet Burns' hair, running his fingers through the strands, fingertips stroking his scalp. As a smile materialized on Burns' face, he felt emboldened to make his touch softer, more affectionate, teasing tufts of hair betwixt thumb and index finger, lost in a trance until he felt Burns' hand close over his.

"Are you going to put any shampoo in, or are you just going to keep watering my hair like the Botanic Garden?"

He blushed and reached for the shampoo as Burns removed his hand, then squirted some in his hand and rubbed it in circles into his hair. He let out a savoring moan and said, "You feel so good." Mr. Burns turned his head up to look at him quizzically. "I mean, your _hair_ feels so good."

"Oh. Yes, I try to take care of it."

He rinsed out the shampoo, and long after it had dissipated into the bathwater, he continued to stroke the back of Burns' head and neck, and hearing a pleased murmur from him, he began to massage the back of his neck and the base of his skull as Burns leaned back into his touch, his eyes shut. "That feels so good, Smithers." Smithers' breathing slowed, then stopped, and he felt his legs go numb. When Mr. Burns opened his eyes, he saw Smithers staring into his with a mixture of fear and elation. "Smithers, you look white as a ghost. What the devil is wrong with you?"

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I..." His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forward, landing face-first into the bathwater.

"Smithers!" He pulled Smithers' head out of the water, then gently pushed him out of the bath and laid him on the floor beside the tub. He lifted himself out and knelt beside him, turned him on his side and weakly smacked his back, hoping to vacate any water from his lungs, then brought his hand to the back of his neck and stroked him, then leaned over and breathed into his mouth.

His eyes fluttered open. "Mr. Burns? What happened?"

"You passed out and fell in the bath."

His eyes drifted around. "And you pulled me out?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what happened. I guess sitting on my knees was a bad idea."

"Are you sure you'll be up for the show tonight?"

He scrambled to sit up a bit, leaning on his forearms and bringing their lips tantalizingly close. "Of course. I'm fine. Like I said, it's just how I was sitting. I'm fine, really." He became aware again of Burns' nudity and felt his cheeks burning.

"See that you are," he said, his breath stinging Smithers' lips. He stood and grabbed a towel to dry himself.

"Allow me, sir," he said, standing and taking the towel from him and dabbing it on his shoulder, his chest, around his waist, patting it against his pelvis, then wrapping it around one leg, then the other.

"I like that."

"What?"

"I've never had a man dry me after a bath. It's a thrill, having a man attend to my slightest needs and whims."

"I'd be more than happy to do you – I mean, do everything for you." Mr. Burns took his robe off the bathroom hook, and Smithers rushed to his side to slide his arms through the sleeves. "And I mean everything."

"Everything, eh?" He pointed to Waylon Senior's room. "Come with me, to your father's bed."

Still holding the shampoo bottle in his hand, he inadvertently squeezed it, causing some to spurt out. He capped it and tossed it to the ground as he stepped quickly, lightly, to meet him.

Mr. Burns untied his robe, let it fall to the ground, then sat on the bed. He cautiously walked up to him, suppressing a giddy, nervous smile. Mr. Burns lay face down on the bed, then looked sharply at him. "What are you waiting for? Come."

"Yes, sir," he said, rapidly sitting beside him.

"Take your jacket off."

"Yes, sir," he said, frantically pulling it off and dropping it to the floor.

"Get on top of me."

"Yes, sir!" he said, hauling his leg up from the floor and straddling his hips.

"Now, give me that massage."

"It'll be my pleasure." He dragged his knuckles up and down his bony ribs, then began squeezing his shoulder blades.

"Mm... that feels so good. Smithers, you're a veritable virtuoso of the sensual arts."

"Oh, Monty, this is only the overture." He began massaging his lower back, grabbing his hips and kneading deeply into his muscles. He grabbed and massaged his buttocks, then lifted one hand and rubbed his elbow in circles around his lower back.

"Oh, Waylon..." he moaned softly into the pillow, sapped of energy.

He leaned forward and sniffed the back of Burns' neck as his hands migrated to wrap around his hips, fingertips teasing the crease of his legs. "Does this feel good, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, it does."

"Do you want me to keep going?"

"Yes."

He massaged his quadriceps, drawing nearer to his inner thighs. "Is this good, sir?"

"Yes. It's very good."

His heart raced as he massaged his inner thighs, then let his hand brush against his genitals and consequently moaned.

He felt Burns' hands close over his wrists. "Do you know what part of me you just touched?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be more careful." He let go of Smithers' wrists.

"Yes, sir." His hands retreated to the safety of the back of his hips. "So, have you read about the show we're seeing?"

"Oh, yes, I've read reviews of the Off-Broadway productions. Seems like a rollicking good time." Smithers cooled himself down by engaging in idle chatter and sticking to massaging less erogenous areas. After the massage, he volunteered to dress Mr. Burns into his tuxedo. "Why don't you wash up? You're still sweaty from the dancing."

"Good idea."

As he headed for the bathroom, Mr. Burns said, "Wait. Don't change back into those clothes. Wear this," he said, pulling out a tuxedo from the bureau drawer. "It was your father's. You're about his size, aren't you?"

"You would know better than I would."

"Wear it."

When Smithers came out of the bathroom in his father's tuxedo, Mr. Burns tented his fingers and said, "Excellent. Now, come along, we'll want to catch dinner and a drink before the show. Let's dine at the hotel restaurant."

"Uh, no, why don't we go someplace else?"

"Where did you have in mind?"

"Well, I've always wanted to go to a five-star restaurant."

"How about Gold Leaf? It's located in the Seagram building."

"Sounds good, sir."


	23. Chapter 23

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

They dined on veal and lobster at the ritzy Gold Leaf, talking, joking, and laughing over fine wine. "Oh, Smithers. I wish you wouldn't leave me."

"Is that why you decided to take me out? To persuade me to stay with you?"

"I decided to take you out so I could show you a good time, while I still can."

"I've been having a wonderful time. Thank you, Mr. Burns."

"Tonight, you are with me not as my employee, but as my friend. Call me Monty."

"Thank you, Monty."

Pouring some more wine for Smithers, he said, "I know I've compared you to your father a number of occasions, but you're really quite different."

"How so?"

"Well. Look at how gay you are!"

"What?"

"You're always smiling at me. Your father was a more austere, pessimistic fellow."

"Oh..."

"And you love the theatre. I could never take your father to shows. He was not taken with the theatre like you and I are."

"Oh?"

"No, he was more of an analytical bent. We played chess a lot. I still have his set in the hotel. We used to play for hours on end. And then there were nights we'd look at the stars through his telescope. He was a brilliant man."

"He sounds like he was."

"He was a bold, brazen man. You're more of a nervous bent, but also more socially gifted than he was. Have I told you about the time he called Senator McCarthy a pompous windbag?"

"No. Did he really?"

"Yes. It so shocked me, my martini came up through my nose. He was ordinarily quite reserved, but when he felt like telling you what he was thinking, he pulled no punches."

"Do you ever think we'll be as close as you and my father were?"

"As far as I'm concerned, we already are."

"Do you think we could ever get... closer?"

"That depends entirely upon you."

He topped off Burns' glass of wine. "What can I do to get closer to you?"

"Stay by my side."

"You know I want to."

"Then do it. Remember what I told you – go after what you want, and don't let anyone stand in your way."

"But sometimes I wonder what I really want. At one point, I feel so sure I want something, but then I'm filled with doubt. What if I was wrong? What if I make the wrong choice? What if I can't undo it? And I feel frozen in place, unable to decide."

"The only wrong choice is the one that displeases you."

"What if both choices please me, immensely?"

"This is one of those times you have to – forgive the cliché – follow your heart."

"But my heart is torn. How do I know which side of my heart to follow?"

"Then the question you have to ask yourself is this: which choice will you regret less?"

"I don't know what I'd regret less, but I know I'd regret it forever if I left you without ever finding out how close we could've gotten."

"It sounds like you've made your choice."

 _Break up with Morris. Can I really do that? I love him, too, though. And he loves me back, no "maybe" about it. It would be the most painful experience of my life to break up with him. But is it fair to him that I keep fantasizing about Mr. Burns instead of him? What if we stayed together, and I kept fantasizing about Mr. Burns? But how would I go on without Morris at my side anymore? How can I give up something so good for something I may never have?_

He sniffled back an approaching tear. No, he didn't want to end things with Morris. But still... he could always keep in touch with Morris as a friend, right? They would just be parting due to their lives diverging, not some acrimonious fight, so that should be eminently doable. Whereas Mr. Burns... how many years could he have to live? This could be his last chance to know Burns' true feelings. In a few years most likely they would be gone, forever, with no way to discern what they once were. The thought scared the hell out of him.

But still. Morris had opened up a whole new realm of possibilities for him. He'd been the first to love him. He was kind, and fun, and creative, and cute, and the thought of making him cry crumpled his lungs and emptied them of oxygen.

"Yes, sir. I have. In fact, I'm going to leave you."

"I see. Let's go, then," he said, fanning out some cash in his hand and casually dropping it onto the table. "Excuse me, I must avail myself of the facilities, first. I shall return soon," he said, quickly patting Smithers' shoulder. Smithers looked at the money on the table, splayed out prominently. The bill was $300 for the food, plus $100 for the wine.

There were eight $100 bills on the table.

"Monty, you showboat."

They walked south down Park Avenue, then west on 45th Street to the Shubert Theatre and sat down for the show. As they waited for it to begin, Smithers looked to Burns, smiling, until Burns finally took notice and looked back at him, then smiled. They held their gaze for a few seconds, then looked away. They repeated this dance until the show began. They watched as the dancers sang and talked of their childhood experiences. Then one of the dancers, Greg, said, "We were necking, and I was feeling her boobs, and feeling her boobs, and after about an hour or so she said, 'Ooh! Don't you want to feel anything else?' And I suddenly thought to myself: 'No, I don't.' It was probably the first time I realized I was a homosexual. I was so depressed because I thought being gay meant being a bum all the rest of my life."

Smithers' cheeks grew hot, and he furtively looked at Mr. Burns, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face didn't flicker. Greg wasn't the only gay character, and he felt a strange blend of anxiety and relief. It didn't seem to bother him at all, which was perhaps unsurprising, given his tolerant attitude toward "experimentation." And yet... he didn't truly know what he thought of exclusive homosexuality. It was as if it didn't exist to him. Any mention of a homosexual liaison he'd regard as an augmentation to a mainstay of heterosexual encounters.

At intermission, they spoke of how much they loved the dancing and the music, Smithers skirting the topic looming largest on his mind. After the show ended, they took a limousine the half mile to the Roseland Ballroom and went to the dance floor. As a song began in the style of swing, Smithers bowed and said, "Monty, may I have this dance?"

He chuckled. "Yes, Smithers, that's exactly how to ask a lady to dance. Only I wouldn't call her 'Monty' if I were you."

 _Of course. Mr. Burns wouldn't dance with me in public! How stupid I was to think we'd dance the night away like some fairytale romance!_ "Right, sir. Just testing myself."

"Enjoy the dancing," he said, seeking out an elderly woman to ask to dance and dancing with impressive vigor. As he always danced.

Smithers just stood there watching for the first song. At the next song, he resolved to ask a woman to dance. He enjoyed dancing, even if it wasn't nearly as good as dancing with Mr. Burns. Or with Morris. Many of the women there were elderly, but that didn't faze him. Even if he were attracted to women and seeking one for a romantic overture, old age obviously wasn't a barrier for him. He approached a woman of about sixty years with gray hair and a lithe figure in a slender black dress reaching to the ankles. He made sure to dance in front of Mr. Burns, doing the most eye-catching and impressive moves he knew.

After several songs, they each took a break and drank some water together. "You dance beautifully," said Mr. Burns.

"Thank you, sir. You're an incredible dancer." Smithers smiled. _Mission accomplished_. "You know, sir, I've had a great time, but I think I'd like to head back to the –"

"Another song is about to start!" He went around the room, looking for a partner, only to find that all the women had been taken. He turned to Smithers, then bowed and said, "Care to dance, Waylon?"

"I'd love to, Monty." He took Burns' hand, this time following Burns' lead unlike in their practice sessions. The song proved slower than the previous ones. They danced elegantly, romantically, until finally Burns dipped Smithers low, his head suspended an inch above the ground. "You really are a great dancer."

"The best, dear friend," he said, pulling Smithers up (or rather, Smithers pulling himself up). "Now, you were saying?"

"I was saying I'd like to go back to the hotel now."

"Oh. Yes, it's been quite a long day, hasn't it? I'm ready to hit the sack, myself."

They rode in a limousine to the Roosevelt Hotel, then on their way to the elevator, Mr. Burns noticed a bit of foie gras stuck on Smithers' cheek. "Here, let me get that," he said, licking his fingertip and rubbing it over his skin, the tip of his thumb touching Smithers' nose and eliciting a flirtatious giggle from him.

"Oh, Monty, stop..." he said in a way that indicated the last thing he wanted was for him to stop.

"Not just yet. You have a spot by your lip," he said, sticking his finger in his mouth and wiping it on the corner of his mouth. Smithers quickly licked the residual saliva off his lip. It was as close to a kiss goodnight as he figured he would get. "Do you want to stay in my suite tonight? Not the whole night – just long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

"For me to make a last ditch effort to persuade you to stay with me."

"Absolutely." Once inside the suite, Smithers turned the lights on. "So, sir, what exactly did you have in mind?"

"I wanted to give you something." He took a box out of his bureau drawer and opened it for him. "They're 18 carat gold and emerald studded. They have your initials inscribed."

"Oh, wow, you got these for me?" He held them up to the light and against his shirtsleeves.

"Well, for your father. They were his before they were yours."

Smithers' enthusiasm deflated. "Sorry, Monty. It'll take more than re-gifted cufflinks to impress me. More than a $400 tip, too."

"Damn it, Smithers, I'm trying to be sentimental! If I were to try to persuade you with extravagant jewelry, I'd get something a damn sight more expensive than that."

"Well. If you want to be sentimental, there is one thing you could do."

"What?"

"Say something."

"Say what?"

"I can't tell you what it is. Because then you might not mean it. I need to know you mean it."

Mr. Burns sat on an armless love seat, and Smithers sat beside him. "Hm. Let me think about this." He crossed his legs and looked upward at the ceiling. "Something sentimental to say to Smithers..." He smirked. "What a tongue-twister that was! Hm..."

"Maybe you should try looking at me, sir."

He looked into Smithers' eyes and smiled. "You're competent. You're kind. You're my favorite employee." He looked for approval and, seeing he hadn't hit upon it, continued. "You're my best friend in this world." Still nothing. "Confound it, man, what are you looking for?"

"If you don't know what it is, then you probably don't have it in you to give." He stood to leave.

"You're probably right about that." He slumped against the cushions. "So you'll be leaving me, then?"

"Yes, Monty. I'm leaving you."

"Will you at least give me one last night with you? Before I lose you, too?"

 _Too._ _Damn, he misses my father a lot. He said we're as close as he and my dad were. So I guess that means he'll miss me this much, too._ "All right, sir. One last night." He kicked off his shoes and took off his tuxedo jacket.

"Let's end this partnership the way it began – drunk off our asses." He dialed the telephone and ordered drinks up from the bar to be brought into their room. Room service brought in a tray carrying an array of martinis, margaritas, whiskey sours, gin and tonics, and long island iced teas. "Take your pick, and have as much as you want."

They drank excessively for hours, reliving shared memories, and then, when good and drunk, Smithers said, "I was scared to ask, but since I'm quitting anyway, wha' dif'rence does it make?" He slurred and stumbled over words. "What'd'ya think of the homosexual dancers in The Chorus Line?"

"They were fine dancers. Wha' does sex have to do with it?"

"I mean, wha' d'ya think of it, in general?"

"I've told you about my fling wit' Ollie, din' I?"

"I know, but wha' about guys who only like guys?"

"You mean, don' like women... at all?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Tha's strange. Bu' wha' do I care?"

"Could you ever fall in love with a man?"

"No." He slammed back a shot of vodka. "I mean, yes." He shook his head and threw his shot glass across the room, shattering it. "I mean, no."

"Well, which is it, 'yes' or 'no'?"

"Yes. I have."

"You have?"

"Yes." He turned away. "Bu' I couldn' do it again." He started to cry, and Smithers held him, holding his head against his shoulder and running his fingers through his hair.

"Monty, wha' happened? Why're you crying?"

"He hurt me... both of 'em did!"

"How'd they hurt you?"

"One... he blackmailed me. Drained me o' half my fortune. The other... he left me."

"Tha's awful... Why'd he leave you?"

Enunciating as clearly as he could, he spoke deliberately: "I don't wish to discuss it." He took a long sip from a long island iced tea. "Th' worst part is... in spite of ev'rything... I fell for another."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Bu' he'll leave me, too. Ev'ryone leaves Monty Burns. No, Monty doesn' need friends or lovers, he has money! Bu' y'know wha' money's good for? Power. Bu' if I can' even buy a lover, wha' kind of power is that?"

He pressed his cheek against Burns'. "I'd never leave you, Monty."

"Bushwa! You _are_ leavin' me! An' who said I was talking about _you_ , anyway? I'm goin' to bed. Fetch my nightcap."

"Yessir," he said, standing up and staggering to the bureau to retrieve Burns' nightcap. Seeing that Burns was even drunker and in no condition to walk about, Smithers summoned all his attention to his coordination and picked him up, laid him on a bed, then brought him his nightcap.

"Fool, this is your father's room!"

"It'll do." He presented the lightly starched cap and placed it over his head.

"Bring me a martini."

"We've already had too much t' drink." He rubbed Burns' shoulder and upper arm. "Tell me about it. You'll feel better. Y'haven't told a soul, have you?" Burns sniffled and nodded. "Who was he?"

"Asa." He clutched at Smithers' shirt collar. "Asa Phelps. Mm. He was a beautiful man. I'd fallen for him in th' army. Jus' before... After th' war, he had pictures. They didn' show 'is face, bu' they showed mine. He extorted enormous sums. He'd been takin' pictures secretly during each liaison for years. Took years to get 'em all back. Betrayal – th' only thing worse is loyalty." He broke down crying. "Hold me, Waylon."

Smithers wrapped his arms around him and held him close. "Tha's so awful... Monty, I wouldn' break your heart..."

"Who said it was you?" he snapped.

"Well, is it?" Burns turned his head away. "Is it me?" Smithers took him by his chin, moved his head so they faced eye to bleary eye. "Monty?" Receiving no response, he leaned in and kissed him deeply.

"Mm... You taste as good as you did three years ago." He kissed Smithers. " _Young an' sweet, sweep me off my feet..._ " He started humming an unfamiliar, old-timey tune. "Oh, Waylon, I love you."

Click.

And those were the words.

He sobbed into Smithers' chest. "I tried to stop it by sending you away, bu' seeing you in tha' museum, I fell all o'er again."

"I love you, too! Sir! I love you, too," he said, caressing his cheek. "Sir...?" Mr. Burns had passed out. "Monty, I love you. I love you."


	24. Chapter 24

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** I accidentally repeated Chapter 23 here in place of chapter 24. The error is corrected now.

Smithers awoke under the covers of his father's hotel bed, his arms wrapped around Mr. Burns. He had a terrible headache and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He swallowed a couple of pills with a swig of a leftover martini. He gently prodded Mr. Burns. Still asleep, but he stirred when poked, so he let him sleep.

 _God, what an awful night. Way to ruin the terrific evening you were having, Waylon. Wait. Was getting drunk Monty's idea? It was last time. What the hell went wrong, anyway? Everything was great all evening, but once we started drinking, it's a haze of tears. What was I crying about? Probably the situation with Monty and Morris. But I think he was crying, too._ He wiped the corner of Burns' eye. _He_ was _crying. Why would he be crying? It's not like he was the one losing a lover... or potential lover._

He brushed the back of his hand against Burns' cheek. _This makes this... what, the third time we've slept together? Even if we didn't really "sleep together". Or rather, that's all we did. Wait – is it?_ He plumbed the depths of his memory and thought over the circumstances of his awakening, searching for any sign they had copulated. _Yes. Sleeping was all we did._ He smiled and pulled the blanket over their shoulders. They were late for the conference sessions they'd signed up for, but he couldn't bear to wake him up.

Mr. Burns' eyes fluttered open for a moment, then he shut them tightly. _The light. It's blinding me._ He curled his head between his pillow and Smithers' shoulder. _What the hell happened last night? Let's see... we had dinner, we took in a show, then we... we... ah, yes, went dancing. Then we ended up back here, somehow. And the last thing I remember... was him telling me he was leaving me._

 _So then how the devil did we end up in bed together? I must have plied him with alcohol..._ He gulped. _Did I make him do anything? Think, Monty, think... No, I don't believe I did. Good._ He opened his eyes to look at Smithers, who subsequently opened his own eyes. "Good morning, Waylon."

"Good morning, Monty."

He pressed his eyes shut. "The world hurts."

"Here," he said, giving him a couple of aspirin and holding a martini glass to his lips.

"Thank you for caring for me during my bout of crapulence."

"It was no trouble." He fluffed Mr. Burns' pillow. "I'm going to miss you."

"So you are leaving me."

"I'm afraid so." _If only he'd tell me he loved me._

"Then go."

"But sir, what about the conference?"

"Forget it. I don't want to see you."

"But sir –"

"You want to leave, yes? So leave me."

"If that's what you really want..."

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

"No! No, it's not what I want at all."

"Then make up your mind!"

"I can't."

"Then go get me breakfast from the hotel restaurant and bring it up here on the double. Eggs Benedict and oatmeal with fresh blackberries."

"Yes, sir."

He changed back into his own suit, then stepped into the elevator and stood as it slowly descended, then stopped at another floor on the way down. The doors opened, and Morris walked in. As the doors closed and it resumed its slow descent, he said, "Where were you last night?"

"I was with Mr. Burns. He was drunk, really drunk, and I couldn't leave him alone."

"Apparently, you couldn't leave the bottle alone either," he said, noting the alcohol on his breath.

"I only had a drink or two, to pass the time."

"Who were you having dinner with?"

"Mr. Burns and one of his business rivals, um, Mr. Amadopolis, I think it was."

"Where did you eat?"

"The Gold Leaf. It's in the Seagram building."

"When did you get back to the hotel?"

"About ten, I think."

"It was almost midnight."

"What?"

"I saw you. I was at the hotel bar, and I saw you. I saw how he touched your cheek."

"He was just wiping off some food from my cheek."

"Come on, Waylon, I'm not an idiot!"

"I know it looks bad, but I'm telling you the truth, I didn't sleep with him. I swear. It's just some bad coincidences."

"Have you quit yet?"

"I'm not at the conference, am I?"

"You mean, you quit?"

"Yes, Morris. I'm going to live with you, here." He took Morris' hands into his, pulled him close, and kissed him. "I wouldn't give away something so good."

"I'm glad to hear that." The elevator opened to the lobby. "Let's get breakfast."

"Sounds good." They sat at a table and Morris ordered the smoked salmon on a bagel with capers and onions while Waylon ordered an asparagus, ham, and cheese omelet. After their orders had been taken, he said, "I forgot to tell them I want mushrooms," and stood up to the counter.

"What may I do for you, sir?" said the waiter there.

"Um, yes, I'd like to place an order to send up to a room."

"Certainly. Which room?"

He spoke softly, "Mr. Burns' suite."

"Ah, yes. What will it be?"

"Eggs Benedict and oatmeal with fresh blackberries. And I want you to bring this up to him with the food," he said, scribbling onto a sheet of hotel memo paper, folding it, and placing it in his hands. "Oh! And I forgot; I wanted mushrooms in my omelet."

He went back to Morris, and they ate. Morris talked about how he'd met a number of interesting people, and there were a few apartments that looked promising. _Yes. This is good. Normal domestic life, just with a man instead of a woman. It's everything I've ever wanted._ He _is everything I could ever want. So why do I feel like I'm making a mistake?_ "Waylon?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think?"

"Of what? Sorry, I'm still tired."

"About living above that bookshop on Christopher and Gay."

"Shush!"

"It's the street name." He shook his head and whispered, "I can be discreet, but I'm not going to bury myself."

Whispering as well, he said, "If people know about you, they're going to know about me."

"I understand, but I'm sick of living that way."

"That's easy for you; you're surrounded by artists. I'm surrounded by men who may as well have been McCarthy's acolytes!"

"You don't have to be," he said at a normal volume. "Mr. Stafford offered you that job at the gallery. If you take it, you won't have to be so quiet about your personal life."

"Yes. I should take that job. It would be great for me."

"But you aren't?"

"I don't know."

"I don't see how you couldn't. As long as you've decided you're moving to New York, you don't have any better offers."

"I guess you're right. Okay. I'll do it." He put his hands over Morris' on the table, held them there for a few seconds, then slid his arms back. "I'll do it."

As they ate breakfast, a man from the restaurant desk called out, "Telephone call for Morris Yackey."

He got up to answer the phone, then returned to their table. "It's Mr. Stafford. He wants me to meet with an art collector he knows. I'll see you this afternoon." He patted Waylon's shoulder.

"Goodbye." He left to go back up to Burns' suite, then knocked at the door. "Sir? Sir, it's me. I think we should talk in person."

He opened the door. "You've made your choice; what is there left to discuss?"

"I just want to say, 'Goodbye.'"

"Goodbye, my dear, dearest friend Smithers. I hope we meet again."

"I do, too, sir."

"Well, how about now?"

"Now?"

"Why wait for a time that may never come? As long as we're foregoing the conference, let's see the city today."

"I'd like that."

Mr. Burns stepped into the hall and shut the door. "Let's go." Once in the lobby, he called the attention of the concierge. "Do you know where there is a velocipede vendor in the vicinity of this hotel?" The concierge looked puzzled.

"He means a bicycle shop," said Smithers.

"Oh! Yeah, there's one on West 48th and Rockefeller Plaza, I Like Bike."

"Thank you," said Smithers, unfolding his map. "That's pretty close." They walked a few blocks north to the bicycle shop.

As they entered the shop, a bell over the door rang, and the shopkeep stopped his sweeping to greet them. "Hello, and welcome to I Like Bike, where our bikes are clean as a hound's tooth. Anything I can do for you gentlemen?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burns. "We're looking to see the city, and I wish to procure one of your velocipedes. Tell me, which is the best?"

"Well, that depends on what you're looking for. You don't want a mountain bike. How about this one," he said, putting his hand around the handlebar of a red bicycle with flame decals. "The Spin Deluxe Speedster."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a dual-seated bicycola."

"Oh, a tandem bike. The Violet Flame is without question the best." He showed them a purple tandem bicycle. "Now, you've ridden tandem before, haven't you?"

"Certainly. Back in 1910, I used to ride with my girlfriend around Yale's University Court."

"Uh... huh. And you?"

"Well, uh, no."

"You _have_ ridden some sort of a bicycle, right?"

"Oh, yes, I've ridden since I was little."

"Then I'd recommend you bike only in a park or someplace away from cars. In order to safely ride it, you have to know each other well, be able to communicate with each other and work as a team. Now, the person in front, the captain, should be larger and more skilled in biking – so you, sir," he said, gesturing to Smithers. "And you should sit in back while he handles most of the work." He gave them a brief tutorial on riding it, then sold it to them.

Outside the shop, Mr. Burns got up on the back seat as Smithers walked on. "O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is not yet done," he said, patting Smithers' seat.

"But sir, he said –"

"Oh, piffle. We can operate this vehicle; why, it's as simple as child's play!"

"If you say so." He got on the front seat. "Ready, sir?"

"Let's roll."

"Then, here goes." He began to pedal, and about half a block in, Burns began to pedal as well. They started to move faster, and as they rode between cars and sidewalks, they felt adrenaline course through them, and Burns grabbed Smithers' sides just above his hips. "Where do you want to go, sir?"

"Let's start with the Museum of Modern Art, shall we?" They rode a couple of blocks north on the Avenue of the Americas and stopped in front of the museums and locked their bike up. They stopped there and took a gander at the graphic art of Milton Glaser and an exhibit of lithographs, etchings, and other types of prints, then rode through Central Park to the American Museum of Natural History at Burns' behest. They looked at the dinosaur fossils, minerals, and displays of animals and habitats from around the world.

"Where next, sir?"

"Let's ride through Battery Park, then ride the ferry." They rode down 7th Avenue, and once they got to the intersection with Christopher Street, Mr. Burns pointed to his map and said, "Let's ride through that park, Washington Square Park. It's to our left."

He turned around Sheridan Square and headed down Washington Place straight through to the park, where they rode around for about twenty minutes past Hangman's Elm, the cherry trees, the Washington Square Arch, Burns still pedaling right along with him, albeit at a much slower pace.

"Let's rest a bit," said Mr. Burns, panting heavily. He'd done hardly any work, but it was a lot for an old man accustomed to not having to lift a finger for himself. "Oh, Smithers, that was such fun," he said, dismounting the bike and lying back on a bench, his knees over the armrest. "It really takes me back."

Smithers lay back on the same bench, his head to Burns', his knees over the other armrest. "I had a lot of fun, too." He sighed wistfully. "I wish we could do this every day."

"As do I."

"I wish I could. I already accepted the job with Mr. Stafford, though."

"I understand." He drew in a deep breath. "But before I let you go, I must tell you, even if we never meet again, you are my friend for life."

"Thank you, sir. That means the world to me." He laughed a subdued murmur of a laugh, thinking over their best times together. "You mean the world to me."

"Thank you, Smithers. I really do love you," he said, voice weak and distant.

Smithers' heart sank and rose in turns. "You do?"

"Yes, yes, now shut up before you get lachrymose on me."

"Okay, Monty." He smiled up to the clouds. His anxieties and anguish about Morris all seemed to float away with those words. Oh, sure, they probably weren't romantically intended, but that was a real possibility, and it was a possibility he couldn't possibly forget or ignore. He had always been a hopeless optimist. He was also ruthlessly pragmatic, though, a quality that suited him well in business. And there was nothing pragmatic about abandoning a sure thing to pursue such an unlikely hope.

 _But Morris was once an unlikely hope. An astronomically unlikely hope. I acted against my common sense to pursue him, and look at the wonderful relationship that came of it. If these feelings I have for Mr. Burns are any indication, we'll have something at least as beautiful._

 _But then, maybe it's just a fear of change. Moving to New York, changing schools, going into the art business... it's such a drastic shift from where I was. It could be the best thing in my life. It could be my greatest regret. The uncertainty kills me. God, please, give me a sign of what I should do._

A leaf fell from a Red Maple tree and landed between their foreheads. Mr. Burns blew on it, leaning it over to Smithers' side. Smithers blew on it, pushing it the other way, and they went back and forth like a tug of war until Mr. Burns lost his breath and Smithers blew it onto his forehead. "Oh, sir, you shouldn't have blown so hard. Sir?" He sat up and saw he'd passed out for lack of oxygen. Without delay, he kneeled beside the bench and breathed into his mouth. When he awoke, Smithers said, "Sir! You scared the daylights out of me!"

"Where am I?"

"We're in Washington Square Park. We were resting from riding our bike."

"Oh, yes, right. I remember now."

"You just rest there for as long as you need. I'll get you something to drink," he said, running to a nearby convenience store and getting a bottle of Coke. He brought it back to the bench where Burns lay, opened it with his bottle opener, then tilted it for him to drink.

"Thank you, Smithers. I needed that." Smithers sat beside him, and Burns propped his head slightly upright against his thigh so he could drink more from the bottle Smithers held for him. "It's funny, Smithers. Twenty years ago, after your father died, I held you and fed you from a bottle, and now you're doing the same for me."

Smithers gazed longingly into his eyes and said, "It's all my pleasure, sir."


	25. Chapter 25

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

A few hours later and after a splash in the fountain, they headed back to the hotel, having decided to forego the bike to the ferry in light of Burns passing out. He went up to Burns' floor to see him off, then went back down to his own floor. He walked into the hotel room and, spying Morris lying on his bed, facing the window, climbed into bed, hugging him from behind, and said softly into his ear, "I'm back, dear."

"Do you call him 'dear' too?"

"No, I call him 'sir.'"

"Will you cut the bullshit, Waylon? I'm sick of you treating me like a gullible fool!"

"Morris, I –"

"I saw you kissing him in Washington Square Park. Mrs. Winifred Thorpe commissioned me to paint the park; I was there all afternoon; you never saw me?"

"I wasn't kissing him! He'd passed out, and I was giving him mouth-to-mouth."

"Uh-huh. You were giving him mouth-to-mouth all right. God, damn, you won't even hold my hand in public, but when you're out with him, you swap spit like it's going out of style!"

"I told you, we weren't kissing!"

"What's your excuse for being with him, then? You quit, didn't you?"

"Yes. I quit. He was just showing me around the city as one last chance to be friends together."

"Friends. Right."

"He doesn't even like me that way."

"You sound so sad when you say that. Why are you sad, Waylon? Hm?" He sniffled, then faced him and shouted, "Why are you so sad?"

"Because I love you! Because I'm attracted to him, but I love you! And it's tearing me apart."

"But you want to be with me, don't you?"

"Yes, Morris! Yes, I want to be with you. The thought of losing you, it – it scares the hell out of me."

"We can get through this. You're done working for him. He doesn't have to be in our lives anymore."

"I don't want to cut him out completely."

"Fine. Do whatever you want. Go sleep with other guys. What does it matter how I feel?"

"Morris, I promise. I won't meet him alone again. It'll only be letters, or phone calls, or you'll be right there with us. That way you'll know there's nothing funny going on."

"I really don't want to be with him in person."

"Okay, then. Just letters and phone calls."

Morris sighed in frustration. "Fine. Whatever."

"Honey, I'm sorry." He hugged him and buried his face in his shoulder and said, muffled, "I'm sorry."

"Just promise me you'll be faithful to me. That's all I need. Your promise."

"I promise."

"You're still attracted to me, aren't you?"

"Are you kidding? You're incredibly sexy."

"Prove it to me."

He smiled and said with a coy pretense of innocence, "How?"

"Start by kissing me," he said, and Waylon kissed him with unprecedented zeal. "Oh, good, good. Now, unbutton my shirt." He did so, kissing his chest as each button fell to the side.

"What else should I do?"

"I think you know exactly what to do."

Playing ignorant, he said, "No, dear. I have no idea."

He pushed Waylon's face into his crotch with a playful roughness. "Figure it out."

He finished undressing Morris and undressed himself as he serviced him, again, just long enough to tantalize him before grasping his hands around his neck and kissing him. Once they parted lips, he said, "Fuck me." He did as Waylon asked, then as Waylon was about to climax, amid a multitude of craving shouts, he screamed, "Oh, Monty!"

Rage flared in Morris' eyes, and he turned them around so Waylon's back was pressed into the mattress and slapped his face. "You son of a bitch!"

"I'm sorry, Morris; I'm so sorry!"

A couple tears slid down his cheek. "You lying son of a bitch!" He slapped his face again. "How many times has that old man fucked you?" He shook him by the shoulders. "Tell me!"

"I'm sorry, Morris, I'm sorry!"

His head drooped down to Waylon's chest, and he sobbed. "Did these rings mean anything to you?" he yelled, pulling their class rings off their fingers. "Clearly not!" He threw them across the room.

"No, they did! I'm so sorry!" He got up and went on his hands and knees to find the rings.

"'Sorry' doesn't turn the clock back to when I trusted you."

"I didn't have sex with him. That is the truth."

"Stop lying to me, Waylon!"

"It's the truth!"

"Then why do you keep apologizing to me if you didn't do anything wrong?"

"Because I did do something wrong. I didn't have sex with him, but... I wanted to. If he had asked me, I would've." He gathered up the rings in his hand and walked back to Morris and was going to hand him one.

"Wait. Only give me your ring if you truly love me." He dropped a ring into Morris' hand.

He looked at it.

 _Springfield High. 1972. Waylon Joshua Smithers, Jr._

"I do love you," said Waylon, "but clearly, not enough." He kissed his cheek as Morris stared straight at the wall in dread of what he knew was unfolding. "You're too good for me." Waylon began getting dressed.

"No," said Morris. "You only think you're not good enough for me. But you're good, Waylon, you're real good, and I can make you see that."

Buttoning up his shirt, he said, "I'm sorry, honey, but you're wrong."

"It doesn't have to end," he said, voice desperate and pleading. "You can see Mr. Burns as often as you like; we can open the relationship; please, just stay."

"You wouldn't be happy with that," he said, zipping up his pants.

"Yes, I would, because I'd be with you! That's all I care about, baby, is being with you."

"I couldn't do that. I guess I have more respect for you than you respect yourself."

"Please, don't go..." He cried into his hands, a soft yet hiccupy, high-pitched cry as sharp as daggers. "Don't leave me... I'll do anything!"

"Please, Morris. Find a man who can give his whole heart to you. Find him, and love him, and be happy."

"No matter what, there's a place in my heart for you."

"You'll always have a piece of my heart." He hugged Morris, laid him back against the bed and ran his hand through his hair, repeatedly whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Once Morris had stopped crying, he stood and began packing his things. "Please, don't make up your mind yet."

"Don't you see? I already made my mind up days ago. I just didn't know it yet."

"We still have another night with the room. Can't we stay up and talk it over?"

"I'm going to stay in Mr. Burns' suite tonight."

"Okay. That's fine. You can go see Mr. Burns, and whenever you two are done, you can come back here. I'll make you coffee..."

"Please, Morris. Don't sacrifice your dignity." He lifted his suitcase in his hand, walked up to Morris, and kissed him between his eye and nose. "You're a great guy. I know you'll find someone as good as you deserve."

"No... I want you. I want _you_ , Waylon. I'll stay in Springfield, and you can work for Mr. Burns, and I'll –"

"No, Morris. I may not love you enough, but I love you more than enough to not be able to put you through that."

"Goodbye, Waylon."

He took Morris in a fast embrace, a tear of his falling onto his shoulder, mixing with his sweat. "Goodbye, Morris." They parted, and Waylon grabbed his suitcase and stopped at the door. Morris wrapped his blanket around his waist. "I have to thank you. You've done something wonderful for me – you're not the first man I've loved, but you're the first one who loved me back."

"I'll always love you, Waylon."

"And I'll always love you. I wish that were enough."

With that, he left for Mr. Burns' suite.


	26. Chapter 26

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** Somehow, I made an error uploading and omitted chapter 24, putting chapter 26 where 25 was supposed to go. I have since corrected this, and everything is here and in sequence now.

* * *

Burns and Smithers sat on a blanket on the grassy hill of Springfield Bowl for the Bicentennial celebration. A performance of Stars and Stripes, a play about the founding of Springfield, a tribute to veterans, the Star-Spangled Banner, and then a spectacular fireworks show to rival all others the town had previously seen. Smithers adjusted Mr. Burns' cushion and said, "Looking forward to the festivities, sir?"

"Indeed, I am. I love music and fireworks. And as a decorated veteran, I consider myself something of a patriot."

"You are a true American hero."

They sat and watched the band play, then the town founding play. Mayor Hans Moleman stood before the podium and said, "Springfielders, I have assembled a group of Springfield's most distinguished veterans for a special tribute for their service in World War I and its sequel, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. Bow your head and give a round of applause to these fine men who served," he said, ushering a group onto the stage.

Mr. Burns looked on, agape. "Why – _I_ should be on that stage!"

"It is an appalling omission, sir."

"I should be on that stage, and I shall. Come with me," he said, pulling Smithers along as he barged through the crowd to the stage as the first veteran spoke. He stole the microphone from the man speaking and said, "What is the meaning of this? Who was in charge of this committee?

Whose incompetent boobery is responsible for me not being contacted about this?"

"Those are my boobs you're talking about," said Agnes Skinner, stepping up from the back of the stage.

Mr. Burns shuddered. "It's you."

"You didn't call the next day like you promised, you reap the consequences."

"Good God, woman, that was forty years ago!"

"Forty long years to grow increasingly bitter."

"Give it up, already!"

"What did you want to say, Monty?" she said, handing him a microphone.

"I just wanted to say, eh..."

"How articulate."

"Shut your trap and let me speak! On such a joyous day of celebration, we must also solemnly remember the lives of those who fell. And thank heavens, I'm not one of them, and most of them were moronic peasants, anyway. Happy fourth! Ta!" He began to walk off-stage as the next veteran began to speak.

"Burnsie," said a man of medium build in his sixties with short gray hair. "Abe just started talking, so we have quite a bit of time to talk."

Mr. Burns gasped. "It's you." His posture visibly tensed, and he took the man aside, just out of earshot of Smithers.

"What do you want, Asa?"

"I want your key."

"Forget it."

"There's one I kept."

His eyes widened in fear, then narrowed menacingly. "I want proof."

Pulling a photograph halfway out of his jacket, he gestured to Smithers and said, "You want him to see?"

"He wouldn't care."

"Oh, so your relationship is like _that_."

"No, it's not, not at all."

"Come on, Burnsie. It's patently obvious, the way you dote on him, the way you grant him privileges you never would grant your other employees. It's only a matter of time before you slip."

"What makes you think I would take the risk when between my millions of dollars and my rugged good looks, there are plenty of women who would be interested in me?"

"The same reason you took the risk with me."

"What the devil do you do with all that money, anyway?"

"I bought myself a nice house, unlimited meals and beers, art, stock, all the latest gadgets – plus a hefty savings for my family when I pass on."

"What a foolish waste of wealth."

He turned Burns by his shoulder and said, "If you don't comply, I'll just start tailing your little kiss-ass, there," gesturing to Smithers with a snicker. "He's sure to be quite the golden goose."

Seeing the mischievous grin materializing on his face, he said, "You leave him out of this."

"You must really like him. Ordinarily, you'd be happy to throw an underling to the wolves to save your own hide."

"What I feel is of no consequence to you. You are to leave him alone."

"I don't think you're in a position to be ordering me around, _Private_ Burns."

"What do you have on me?"

"A certain someone putting the moves on another certain someone's father."

"How did you get a picture of that?"

"You forget – since my stint in the army, I've been an expert at planting hidden cameras." He smirked. "Hand over the key."

"I'd sooner see a photograph of me buck naked plastered on the front page of the Springfield Shopper than give you the key! This is about more than treasure, Asa – this is personal. You made it personal."

"No. You made it personal. I made it business."

"Go ahead and disseminate the photograph. See what I care. It's not as though I'm a stranger to scandal."

"Do you really want your latest squeeze to know you were canoodling with his father? You think of his father when you're fucking him, don't you? Wouldn't he love to know that?"

"We have never –"

"Right. And I'm the merry queen of England."

"No, not a merry queen – you're a backstabbing, bitter old queen."

"The key, Burnsie."

Looking down with a heavy sigh, he reached into his coat and pulled a key out by its chain. "What do you even want with it? Simpson, Wiggum, Skinner, and Gumble are all alive, as are Griff and Etch."

"Alive, but that doesn't mean they have their keys."

"You stole them?"

"No. I didn't steal them. I persuaded them to give them to me."

"You thieving scoundrel. What have you got on them?"

"Ah, ah – that wouldn't be very good for business, betraying my clients' trust by blabbing after they paid me off, now would it? But it's not the kind of trouble you've gotten wrapped up in. We'll leave it at that. And I haven't got every man's key. Yet."

"What if I gave you dirt on one of the men whose key you haven't gotten? Something you can use to blackmail him."

"It would have to be compelling."

"Who do you need to know about?"

"There are two I haven't managed to get keys from: Skinner and Simpson."

"You're in luck. I happen to have some photographs of Abe in a rather compromising position."

"Oh, Monty. You and him? I thought you at least had standards."

He shuddered. "Not that kind of position. I mean I saw him traipsing through Düsseldorf in drag after the war. And I have photographic evidence," he said, pulling the photographs out of his jacket.

"You carry them with you?"

"Well, they always lift my spirits when I'm feeling down. You should see how he fills a dirndl."

Looking at them and giving a chuckle, he said, "Okay. You have a deal. I'll take these, and you can have your photo back."

"Agreed." _As if I'd let you win, Asa. Your folly is in thinking Abe Simpson has sufficient shame to surrender his key._ He handed Asa the photographs of Abe as Asa handed him the photograph he had concealed in his clothes, negative attached by paperclip. There, in black and white, was him, twenty-five years earlier, kissing Waylon Smithers, Sr. and fondling his thigh in his mansion that night he had attempted to seduce him.

"One of these days, I'm going to catch you and him going at it, and I'll squeeze your last penny out of you."

He stared at the photograph for a few seconds before stuffing it into his jacket and walking to where Smithers stood. _This one I won't burn._

* * *

A man in a trench coat knocked on Mrs. Smithers' house, slipped a large manilla envelope through the mail slot in the door, and sped away. She interrupted her cleaning of a spotless, sparkling counter to retrieve the envelope. Unmarked, no stamp. It was highly suspicious, but of what?

She opened it, took out the photograph, and fell to the sofa, sick in her stomach. No, not her stomach. Her heart. All her worst fears, all but confirmed.

* * *

It was lonely in the apartment without Morris. He still had some things there – little things he would probably never ask for, like a pulp detective novel, an essay he'd written in college on pre-Raphaelite painting, half-empty tubes of paint, the manual to his old Porsche 914. Less than a month before the lease ran out, and he'd be moving to his next apartment. It was a little cheaper. He could afford something much nicer, but he wanted to save up money early on so he could live even more comfortably in the years to come.

The phone rang. He hoped it was Morris. Or Mr. Burns. He ached for the company of either. "Hello?"

"Waylon?"

"Mother?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"I mean, in person." He didn't respond. "Honey, I love you. I miss you."

"You can come here. I'm not going back there."

She arrived about ten minutes later, and he opened the door for her and couldn't help but smile a bit. He welcomed her with a hug, and she said, "It's good to see you, son."

"It's good to see you, too." He looked around at the space, barren save for stacks of boxes. Much of the furniture had been moved out, so they sat on the edge of his bed. Well, his and Morris' bed. "I broke up with Morris last year."

"Does this mean you're going to try living straight?"

"No, mother. And I know you didn't approve of us, but you're the only person I can really talk to about this. I loved him, and we had a good relationship, but I kept thinking about somebody else. I still have a crush on this other guy, but we aren't getting anywhere. And I keep thinking I shouldn't have left him. But then, I'm with the guy I like, and all that doubt disappears. But still, I feel guilty. I know I would've enjoyed my life if I'd stayed with him. I know that. But I left to pursue something I wanted even more, and I feel really guilty. And... I don't know, I'm rambling. But I really loved him. We were going to move to New York together."

She didn't say anything. Just hugged him, held him tightly, and cried into his shoulder, then backed away a bit. "Honey, there's something I need to ask you, because it's eating at my soul. Waylon, when you were a kid, you saw Mr. Burns a few times. Do you remember that?"

"Yes. He was at my eleventh birthday party."

"At one point I was looking for you, and when I saw you, you were coming out of your room, and Mr. Burns was following you out. When I asked you what he was doing in your room, you got really anxious and said he wasn't doing anything. You can tell me now. What was he doing in there with you?"

"Well, I guess I always knew you'd figure it out eventually." He reached into a nearby box and pulled out a Malibu Stacy. The very one Mr. Burns had given him for his eleventh birthday. "He gave me this."

Her eyes opened wide. "Is that all?" She wasn't thrilled about Burns going behind her back to give him a doll, either, but it was decidedly less gruesome than what she'd imagined he'd say.

"Yes, why? What did you think I was going to say?" Noting the dread in her eyes, he scowled in disgust. "Mr. Burns would never! How could you even think he did something like that?"

"Because he... he's done something like it before."

"When did he molest a child? Where's the evidence?"

"It wasn't a child."

"You're saying he raped a woman?"

"I'm saying he groped a man!"

"What, so if a man touches another, it's assault? Was I assaulting my boyfriend for a year and a half?"

"As far as I'm concerned, he was assaulting you."

"You know, there were plenty of times he was on the receiving end. Am I a rapist in your eyes?"

"No, of course not! I don't blame you, sweetheart, I blame the man who made you this way."

"Who? My father?"

"He had nothing to do with this!" she screamed.

"Nobody 'made' me this way but you and him."

"I did the best that I could!"

"I don't mean you 'did' anything. I mean, it's my genetics. I was born to grow up and love men."

"Just tell me what he did. It's not your fault, honey; none of this is."

"He didn't do anything!"

"It's okay to tell me, Waylon. If you're afraid he'll retaliate, I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I've told you everything! Mother, Mr. Burns has been nothing but a decent man to me."

"Mr. Burns is the man you left Morris for, isn't he?"

"Um..." Just as when she had discovered his beefcake magazines, he knew when not to play dumb. "Yes, mother. That's exactly right."

"Did he ever ply you with alcohol?"

"No!"

"You're lying!"

"Okay, he did, but I wanted him to! I've wanted him since I was a senior in high school. I flirt like crazy, but he never seems to notice, or he brushes me off. That you'd accuse him of molesting me when I've been trying to get into his pants for years and constantly been rebuffed is... I don't even know! Insane!"

"Oh, please, he clearly has a sexual interest in you."

"Really? What makes you think so?"

"For one thing, the possessive, leering way he looks at you."

"I've never seen him look at me like that, and I've tried. You have no idea how much I've looked."

"Honey... he's an eighty-five-year-old man. You can't possibly think this fixation on him can be healthy."

"I don't care! I love him."

"Do you? Or do you just love the idea of him?"

"I do love him."

"That's not love!"

"How could you possibly know whether what I'm feeling is love or not?"

"Because my son can't be in love with the worst human being I've ever met! You're too sweet and sensitive to have fallen in love with such a despicable man! He tore your father from our family, and now he's trying to do the same to you!"

"He is not despicable! He's a gentleman, and he's so cunning, and endearing, and beautiful, and his voice cuts straight to your soul, and his touch... I crave the touch of his hands like nothing else, so light, so delicate, so fierce..."

"I can't sit here while you wax lyrical about the man responsible for your father's death," she said, getting up and heading for the door. "Please, honey, get back together with Morris. I'll even invite him to Christmas dinner; just stay away from Mr. Burns."

* * *

"Mr. Burns! Get the hell out here and face me!"

Through the intercom, finger hovering over the "release the hounds" button, he said, "Leave my property before I release the hounds."

"Have it your way. I guess I'll just get this picture posted in the paper." She removed a photograph from a large envelope and displayed it to the security camera.

The gates opened, and she entered the estate. He met her at the door. "Come in." He got himself a glass of brandy, and they sat by the fire. "I feared this day would come since Asa showed me this picture. Evidently, he made prints before he gave me my copy last week."

"Who is Asa?"

"The man who took this picture. The man who's attempting to blackmail your son as he did to me for decades." He took a long, slow sip. "I suppose now it's obvious why I've felt so bitterly resentful toward you all these years. You were lucky to have Waylon's love."

"He's trying to blackmail Waylon? With what?"

"By taking a covert photograph of him with a man. I've been trying to warn Waylon away from Asa, but it's difficult without letting him know I know he's... like that."

"And now you're trying to seduce my son?"

"No, Hattie. After Waylon Senior died, I couldn't bear to take another man, least of all his son. The day he rejected me, a part of me died. I couldn't go through that again."

"I've seen the way you look at him, eyeing him up like you're going to take him home and have your way with him."

"It's true. I do love your son. But I could never have an affair with him. I've done all I can to discourage myself."

"Not all you can; I've seen you flirt with him."

"I am not flirting with him; I'm merely being friendly. If he confuses that with flirting..."

"You're counting on that! You're trying to manipulate him, aren't you? Get him around your little finger so you can do whatever you want with him, that's right, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Smithers, please! That's enough speculation on your part."

"It's not speculation; it's who you are!"

"I'm on his side. Asa is who we have to be concerned about."

"Why Waylon, though? There must be many men around here more powerful than he is to blackmail."

"Because he knows I care enough about him to pay any – well, almost any – price he asks, and Waylon is young, so he is bound to take more lovers in a year than I would in the rest of my life."

"I don't see how this is a problem, then. If you're going to pay to keep him quiet, there is no problem. You have more than enough money to cover it." She fixed her eyes on his and matched the menace in his gaze. "I don't believe a damn word you've said about you not pursuing him. You've been grooming him from the start, haven't you?" Her firm resolve crumbled as she broke into tears. "You touched him, didn't you? Didn't you! You sick, fucking bastard! You screwed him up, and now he'll never enjoy a normal life. That's why you coerced us to stop sending him to a therapist, so the truth wouldn't get out!"

"Hattie, that is enough! I've done many questionable things in my life, but fondling a child is not one of them!"

"You're not angry to have a false accusation leveled at you. This angers you because I hit a nerve, didn't I?"

"Leave."

She flicked his glass up, splashing the brandy on his face, then pushed him headfirst to the fireplace. Before his face could burst into flame, though, the photograph slid out of her grasp and into the fire as he hit a button on the brick by the fireplace that threw down an iron gate over the fire and opened a trap door just beside where Hattie had been standing.

"Leave."

She dove down and attempted to strangle him, and he pressed another button, summoning the hounds, who quickly set upon her. They attacked her, and once he got to a safe room, he called off the hounds and said over a loudspeaker:

"Leave."

She hobbled out of the mansion, crying. Once she had gotten outside the gates, she collapsed by her car. _Waylon... how could I have failed you this badly? Your father must hate me for letting this happen to you. I know I hate myself for it._ She crawled into the driver's seat, shut the door, and banged her head repeatedly against the steering wheel. "I've failed, failed, failed, failed, failed! Failed you..."


	27. Chapter 27

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven**

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** Earlier, Chapter 23 repeated on chapter 24 and chapter 24 content was missing. I've fixed it and put back the missing chapter.

* * *

It had been a late night at the 1977 Spring in Springfield gala, and Smithers drove Burns back to his mansion as Burns rambled, just a bit tipsy, about some of the idiots he'd had to deal with at the plant. "Not you, though, thank heavens for that. You're the only man there who doesn't drive me up the wall. Speaking of which, this ride is quite smooth. Another thing you're skilled at."

"I'm skilled at many _other_ things as well, sir."

"Like what, jabbering on about nothing?"

Smithers kept quiet until they pulled in front of the manor. Once they were inside, he fixed Mr. Burns his customary bedtime brandy and sat in the chair beside him by the fire. "Oh, sir. You danced beautifully tonight."

He smiled. "I did, didn't I?"

"You're a wonderful dancer."

"Yes, yes."

"Remember when we danced at the Roseland Ballroom? That night was so... magical."

"You could put it that way."

"I could have danced all night."

"Yes..." he said, eyes shifting around the room.

"Mr. Burns... I've never met anyone like you. You're a gentleman, but you aren't gentle. You're a man of a bygone era, yet you lead us brilliantly into the future. You're intelligent, but you aren't an eccentric. You have a ruthless fire in your eyes, but you also have a tender sweetness. You –"

"Yes, I'm a multifaceted enigma, I get the picture. Now, quit dancing around whatever it is you're trying to say and get to the point!"

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, sir – Monty, I'm madly in love with –"

"–with dancing, yes! So am I, dear friend, so am I."

"No, I mean, I'm in love with you–"

"Unicycles! Who doesn't love a good romp on the unicycle?"

"Oh... yes. Of course." _He knows what I'm saying. He just doesn't want to hear it._ "Well, let me take you to bed."

He went to Burns' side and closed his hand over the inside of his elbow, only for Burns to violently snap his arm away. "Don't touch me! I'll walk myself to my room." He walked down the hall to his room, Smithers standing and watching him until he got to the doorframe, paused, and said, "Go home, Smithers," then shut the door behind him.

"Yes, sir." He drove home, then cried himself to sleep on his and Morris' old bed.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" said Mr. Burns.

He thought over the last few months, how Burns had been snapping at him more regularly and more severely, recoiling from his touch, always taking a few steps back to add some distance between them. "Yes, sir. I'm sure." He adjusted his white cap. "Besides, I've already committed myself."

"Well, when you get back, there's always a job for you with me."

"Thank you, sir. I'll remember that."

* * *

"Petty Officer Smithers, we have reached a verdict," Commander Wallace said, standing before his fellow service members who had been convened to try him in court-martial. "We have found you guilty of homosexual conduct, indecent acts, and behavior unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. You are hereby undesirably discharged from the United States Naval Service."

He shuffled out of the room, carrying his paperwork close up to his chest, head crouched low against his shoulders. What he had so hard and for so long tried to hide was now a matter of public record.

"At least his father isn't alive to see how he's disgraced him," said one of the officers who'd tried him, an old friend of his father.

 _At least I still have my painting of Ramiro lying on my couch, wearing his sailor uniform... and the other painting where he's_ not _wearing it..._ _But what the hell do I do now? Mr. Burns said he would always have a job for me, but with this black mark on my record? If he knew I was still messing around with other men... I don't know what he'd think._

 _That I haven't matured? That was the old theory, right? That gay people are stuck in some regressed state. According to Freud, I believe. Then there was that other theory, that we're mentally female and latent heterosexuals. Sexual inversion, that's what it was called. Would he rather I be a straight woman than a gay man?_ He tried to imagine himself with breasts. _That would be weird. But damn, if I looked like Greta Garbo, Monty would be all over me..._

The feeling of being wanted washed over him. _Hopefully, his boarding school fling wasn't just a fluke. I feel a spark when we're together; I know I've felt a spark from him. He really liked me at some point. Maybe if I work really hard, bend over backwards to please him, he'll like me again. Like he used to._

 _God, what am I doing with my life? Why am I still hung up over Mr. Burns? Over Morris? He told me men could have enduring relationships together, but I haven't seen that. Just hook-ups and heartbreak. Please, God, let me fall in love with just one woman._

* * *

Waylon arrived at the door to his mother's house, suitcase in hand. She opened the door, a tear sliding down her cheek as she embraced him, this being the first time she'd seen him in four years. He uttered half a word, a wobble in his lip.

"Waylon? Are you okay? Honey, talk to me."

His words quietly crumbling, he said, "You were right..."

"You're home, sweetheart." She kissed his cheek. "You're home."

She made a place for him at the table and fixed him tea. "Thanks for taking me in."

"It's good to see you, son."

"How have things been around here?"

"I planted rose bushes in the garden this spring. Winton got a promotion last year. Other than that, pretty much the same as ever." She poured the hot water over tea bags in two cups and handed him one. "How have you been holding up?"

"Not well." He looked down into his tea. "You'll be pleased to hear I'm swearing off men."

"I know being discharged has been hard on you, but there's a silver lining if it spurs you to make a positive change in your life."

"Yes. I guess you could look at it that way."

"You know, Cheryl divorced her husband earlier this year."

"I didn't know she was married."

"She got married last year."

"To whom?"

"Kirk Van Houten."

"Oh. Gee, it's a mystery why that relationship fell apart," he said sarcastically.

"She told me she still thinks about you. She also mentioned that you were the one to break up with her."

"Yes. I did."

"You broke her heart."

"It was a mistake."

"If you're lucky, she might be willing to give you a second chance."

"Yes. If I'm lucky."

* * *

"Of course you may have your job back, Smithers," said Mr. Burns, signing some documents at his desk in the power plant.

"Oh, thank God!" He sighed in relief.

"It shouldn't surprise you. I told you I would keep a place here for you."

"I know, I just thought that – well, with my discharge –" _Shut up, Waylon. You don't want to encourage him to investigate the matter more closely, do you?_

"What about it?"

"Nothing, sir."

* * *

"Well, I'm seven years late, but I've finally made good on my promise to you," said Waylon, carrying Cheryl across the threshold to their house. He set her down, then said, "Now, let me show you just how happy you've made me," he said, taking her hand and leading her up to their bedroom. He recalled the feelings he'd lived in while making love to Morris as he kissed her, then tore off her clothes with the fervid abandon he'd done with Morris. He stroked the curves of her breasts and hip, fingers curling around flesh, enacting the motions of longing. In truth, he was longing, longing deeper than he ever had before, albeit not for her. He took her with convincing passion, then lay beside her. _I should win a goddamn Oscar._ "So, how was that?"

"Oh, Waylon. You were magnificent. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Me neither. I mean, I just needed practice. Gain some confidence."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me, too." They kissed, then said goodnight and shut the lights out.

Sometimes he hated being a talented actor.

* * *

"I'm attending an art showing tonight," said Mr. Burns. "The show is featuring an up-and-coming sculptor, Vic Stiles. Join me," he said, "and feel free to bring your wife along." _I could always do with another reminder that you're off-limits._

"I'd love to. And I'm sure Cheryl would be delighted to come."

That night, he and Cheryl arrived with Mr. Burns at the Louvre: American Style. The artist spoke to discuss his work, and while he spoke, Waylon's jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. Across the room, near the microphone where Vic stood, was Morris. His legs jumped with the desire to run over to him and hug him. Once Vic finished speaking, he turned to Cheryl and said, "Be a dear and get us some refreshments, would you?" As she got a plate and went to the refreshment table, he waved and smiled wide, eliciting the same response.

"Waylon!" He shook his hand vigorously. "It's been so long."

"For me, too. Look, Morris, I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have slapped you."

"No, no, no, I understand."

"Don't say that, Waylon. God, it's good to see you again." He looked over his shoulder and said, "Let's find a place to talk."

Waylon gestured for him to follow, then led him to a hallway. "The janitor's closet. Perfect."

"But it's locked."

He pulled out a key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and opened it. "Mr. Burns' skeleton key." He shut and locked the door behind them, then flipped a switch, turning on a single lightbulb hanging from overhead.

"How are you and Monty doing?"

Waylon felt guilty for bringing up Mr. Burns and shook his head. "He's grown very cold to me. I was telling you the truth when I said we'd never had sex. I thought I'd seen some signs he was into me, but I must have imagined it. We're just friends, employer and employee."

Morris kissed him, stroked the underside of his jaw. "I thought I'd never kiss you again."

"I made a mistake. More mistakes than I can count, but my worst one was leaving you." Waylon kissed him, grabbed his hips, and pulled him close, eliminating as much space between them as he could, sniffed his neck while Morris kissed his forehead. They kissed along each other's necks, rubbed against each other, moved so fluidly against each other that they appeared as one. "Oh, Morris, I missed you." He kissed him. "I want you back." He pressed their cheeks together. "I'm so sorry I cheated on you."

"But I thought you said you didn't screw him."

"I didn't, but it was still cheating."

"Well, I don't have any moral high ground over you. Not anymore, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Um... I'm Victor's boyfriend."

"Vic Stiles?"

"Yes." He drew in a deep breath. "I know what you were going through, now."

"I'm also sort of... tied up."

"Who is he?"

"Actually... I got married."

"Oh, Waylon. How could you do that to yourself?"

"I know, I know; I've been such a fool! I want to run away with you to New York."

"You know, I'm completely out, now. You couldn't stay in the closet."

"I don't care! It couldn't be more miserable than what I'm living right now."

He ran his hand through the hair on the back of Waylon's head. "You know I want to."

"Then do it."

He slowly disengaged. "I'm sorry. I couldn't leave Vic any more than you could stay with me."

"Morris..."

"You broke my heart, Waylon. How do I know that a year down the line, you won't get bored with me, some other man won't catch your eye, and you won't leave me for him? I don't think I could do that again."

"Because I love you!" He pulled out Morris' class ring from his pocket and slipped it onto his ring finger.

"You loved me then, too." He kissed his lips. "You were my first love, and I'll never forget you or stop loving you. But it's time I moved on."

"If I could take back those three nights in New York, I would."

Morris smiled a pained smile. "No, you wouldn't."

"You're right. I wouldn't." he put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him, delicately brushing their lips with the slightest contact, paradoxically heightening their awareness of the sensation. "Have a nice life, Morris. And keep in touch." He wrote his phone number out for Morris.

"I will."

"I'm glad we could part this way. On good feelings – about the way we were, not the way things ended."

"I'm glad, too." Morris left the closet and rejoined Victor, followed by Waylon walking into the bathroom and back out, pretending he'd just been using the facilities, and meeting with Cheryl and Mr. Burns again. His and Morris' eyes caught each other from time to time during the evening, and they smiled sweetly and slyly.

As the showing wrapped up and most people had left save Victor, Morris, Waylon, his wife, and Mr. Burns, Waylon fed Mr. Burns little cubes of cheese, and he could swear that when his fingertips brushed against his lips, he felt a spark, and Mr. Burns could feel it, too.


	28. Chapter 28

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight**

For that first year, he would occasionally get a call from Morris. Morris always kept the calls extremely short, but he was nevertheless always eager to hear about what was going on in Waylon's life despite his silence concerning his own relationship. Then, one day, he stopped calling, and if Waylon called him, he would either hang up the phone upon hearing him or quickly say he was busy and couldn't talk. Waylon, for his part, kept close by Burns' side. Their conversations became increasingly intimate, the physical buffer whittled away, and then Burns would suddenly pull away and become more distant than ever before. Then the barrier would again erode, and the process would repeat.

Smithers walked from his office to Burns', clipboard in hand, when Homer Simpson, carrying a stack of boxes in front of his face, bumped into him, spilling the contents of the boxes. Company pens, tape dispensers, staplers, pencil sharpeners, memo pads, pencil holders, spilled onto the hallway floor. Smithers looked down at the mess, back up to Homer, and scowled. "Simpson! What do you think you're doing?"

Sheepishly, Homer said, "I was, uh... taking them to be... uh... cleaned."

He scoffed. "You've been here for four years, and you couldn't even come up with a convincing lie."

"Like what?"

"Like, oh, I don't know, you were taking inventory, or you were confiscating them from another employee who was stealing them."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," said Homer, writing down the excuses on one of the company memo pads with one of the company pens. "Any other ideas?"

"Give me that," said Smithers, snatching it away. As he walked, without turning back, he said, "Clean up that mess, immediately." Entering Burns' office, he said, exasperated, "Sir, I don't know why you insist on keeping Homer Simpson around here."

"Who?"

"Homer Simpson, sir, one of your bottom-feeders from Sector 7-G. He spends half of his time around here goofing off and the other half endangering us all."

"Ah, yes, that portly oaf." He stood and put his hand on Smithers' shoulder, then walked with him to the monitors. He depressed a button, leading the monitor for his station to show up on screen. "Such a man may appear to be a waste of resources, and yes, it's true that he costs the plant some money. But it is the price for insurance. You see, he makes for an ideal patsy. Well, almost ideal."

"And that's worth not only the hit in profits, but risking our lives?"

"Yes. Or would you rather see me handcuffed and strip-searched?"

"Um... well, not in prison."

"What good is life without a little risk? I'd rather die in a meltdown than live for years on end in prison."

"What about me, sir?"

"What about you?"

"You wouldn't want me to die in an accident here, right?"

"Of course I don't want that." _But really, what should I care? If I can't have him, why should anyone else?_ "But you needn't worry about that. We've installed many failsafes to guard against such a catastrophe."

"I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right! Now, I do have some business for you to attend to. Get me my espionage coordinator." Smithers looked up a number in the rolodex and dialed, then handed him the phone. "Hykes? Is the ass eating grass on the hill?"

"It passes gas as it will."

"Is the sable still in the stable?"

"The cable runs through the gable."

"Excellent." He hung up. "Smithers, I need you to call my private jet pilot. The two of us are flying to New York City. Posthaste."

"Certainly, sir. How long are we going to stay?"

"As long as it takes."

"If you wouldn't mind my asking, what will we be doing there?"

"Never you mind that." He leaned back in his chair. "Smithers, it's going to be one hell of a weekend."

They arrived at the Roosevelt Hotel that Saturday and checked into their suite. Bringing their luggage inside the room, Smithers said, "I'll have to look up Morris. I haven't heard from him in so long."

"Yes... but first things first."

"And what is that, sir?"

"In good time, my dear. For now, why don't you have one of these lovely martinis I had them bring up for us, hm?"

"Why, thank you, sir," he said, grabbing one from a tray.

"Please. Call me Monty." He took his own martini. "Cheers, Waylon." They clinked glasses.

"Cheers, Monty." He took a sip.

"Let's go into your father's room, now." He led the way and sat on the side of the bed, right by the pillow, and Smithers sat beside him.

"This takes me back. Remember when I was in high school and we got drunk?"

He took his own drink. "I remember the night well."

"Things were so much simpler then."

"Weren't they?"

"Do you remember the other night we got drunk? Here in this hotel room." Waylon drank from his glass. "After the musical, that whole night is a blur."

"For me, as well. But sometimes I dream, and it feels more like a memory than a dream, and I wonder if it's from that night."

"I get that dream, too. But I always wake up before I can see what I couldn't see before."

"I want to relive that dream, Waylon. I want to find out how it ends." He set his glass down, then tilted Smithers' glass, pouring it down his throat as quickly as he could swallow it. Just as the olive landed on his tongue, Burns picked it up and tossed it into his own mouth, then swiftly imbibed of his own martini.

"So, how should we begin?"

"Begin what?"

"Reliving that dream?"

"Oh, yes. That."

"Well, what's the last thing you remember?"

"You said you were leaving me. Then... then, we started talking about sex."

"What did we say?"

"I don't remember."

"I don't remember, either."

"If we don't remember, we may as well start talking about it now."

"But sir –"

"You want to relive that night, don't you?" Smithers' eyes widened in fixed attention. "I'll get you started. Who was your last lover?"

"Um – my wife!"

"Before her."

"She was my first."

"Yes, but in college, you told me you'd taken a lover. Who was it?"

"I don't remember. No one you'd know."

"Do you love your wife, Waylon?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think you do. Your father, he loved your mother. I don't get that impression about you and Cheryl. It seems more a marriage of convenience than of love."

"What makes you say that? I show her plenty of affection."

"Sometimes too much."

"You think I don't love my wife because I'm _too affectionate_? Monty, you're not making any sense; this is ridiculous!"

"Is it? Tell me, Waylon: are you so affectionate in private as you are in public? Because when I see you two petting, it looks like you're putting on a show."

"That is a lie! Why would I want to fake loving my wife? Why would I do that? Why would I have married her if I didn't love her?"

"Why, indeed."

"I don't want to talk about it!" He stood, preparing to leave the room.

"Sit down, Waylon." Hearing his name calmed him, and he complied. "You don't need to stay with her if you don't want to be with her." He put his arm around Waylon's shoulders. "If you want to be with someone else, you should tell that person." He slid his hand down the side of Waylon's arm. "Before it's too late."

"Sir..."

"Call me –"

"Monty..." He melted against Burns' shoulder, looked up into his sparkling blue eyes, and leaned forward to kiss him.

The door busted down, and police filled the room. Mr. Burns protectively brought his other arm around Smithers' waist, then, fearing their interpretation of it, sharply recoiled.

"Mr. Burns, you're charged with the abduction of Asa Phelps," said an officer, roughly pushing him stomach-first onto the bed and cuffing him from behind.

Smithers snarled. "Don't manhandle him like that!"

"I bet he knows a thing or two about manhandling," snickered an officer.

Burns said, "Whatever he told you is a damned lie!"

"You're going to prison for sure this time," said the officer who put him in cuffs. "Considering you're 90 already, you'll most likely die in prison."

Seeing Burns' frightened face, looking so damn frail and innocent, shattered his image of the most powerful man he'd known. A man he'd always seen skirt the rules and get his way was not, in fact, impervious to the long arm of the law. Smithers stepped between them and the door. "No. I did it. I'm the one responsible." He offered his hands out, and they handcuffed him.

Mr. Burns smiled at him. It was a smile most read as malevolent, but it was slightly different from his usual malevolent smile. It had a lustful, enticing quality to it, as if he were beckoning with his lips. A look that said: _You're mine, and I love it._

They hauled Burns out with him for questioning. In the backseat, they colluded to keep their stories consistent and so Smithers would have the relevant details of the crime.

It worked, and Smithers was sentenced to a year in prison. He had hoped Burns' influence would have knocked down the sentence a bit more or even gotten him off, but as his lawyer pointed out, it was pretty good considering the minimum was normally five years. As devastated as he was, he was gratified to know that Burns would not have to suffer any of the indignities of imprisoned life.

He'd tried to call Morris from Springfield Penitentiary, but he got the answering machine each time. After a few weeks, he got a message saying the number had been disconnected. He requested a New York City phonebook as soon as an updated one was available, but he couldn't find Morris in it.

Each month, he got a conjugal visit with his wife, which he'd invariably refuse. Each Wednesday, he'd get a letter from Mr. Burns updating him on the goings-on in his life, at the plant, in Springfield. Each Saturday, he'd get a four-hour visit from Mr. Burns. This was the highlight of his week, as Mr. Burns always began and concluded the visit by holding his hand and telling him to "hang in there, dear friend."

* * *

Ring ring...

Ring ring...

Ring ring...

"Please, pick up..." Morris leaned forward on the couch seat, phone receiver pressed tightly against his ear.

Ring ring...

"You've reached Waylon Smithers. I'm not here now, but at the tone, please leave your name and phone number, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a nice day."

"Of course your answering machine message sounds like an office message." He chuckled, thinking about his adorably uptight old flame. Then he realized – it didn't just sound like an office message. It _was_ an office message. It never mentioned his wife or his home. Of _course_ it was an office phone number he'd given him, or his wife would surely have picked up sometimes.

BEEP.

"Hi, Waylon. It's me, Morris. I really need to talk to you. Please, get back to me. I'm not asking you to do anything; I just need to talk. Please. I just need to talk to you... Please, pick up. Pick up the –" The phone beeped as it cut him off. He brought his feet up to the cushion and lowered his forehead onto his knees. "Just pick up..."


	29. Chapter 29

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"We've already told you you're welcome to come back home. Just repent your sin of homosexual depravity, and you can come home," said Mr. Yackey.

"Your soul isn't beyond redemption," said Mrs. Yackey. "With the power of the Lord, we can help you. Please, honey."

"Forget it. I'm staying here in New York, where my friends and my real family are." He slammed the phone back on the hook, then dialed Waylon's number.

"You've reached Waylon Smithers. I'm not here now, but at the tone, please leave your name and..."

As the recording ran its course and he left yet another message, he said, "Fuck... just fuck. Fuck this!" He threw the phone across the room, the cord yanking the base off the counter, the phone chanting a meager tone of disconnect.

* * *

Donald Yackey stepped out of the plane at Springfield International Airport back from his sophomore year at Harvard. He hugged his parents, then looked around and said, "Where's Morris? I thought you said he'd come home."

"He did. But he's sick."

"What's he sick with?"

"Pneumonia."

"Is he in the hospital?"

"Not anymore."

"Good, so he's getting better." They drove home, Donny talking enthusiastically about his time at school. "I should probably save the best stories until Morris is with us."

Once they'd pulled into the garage, Donny strolled through into the main hallway and upstairs to Morris' room. He opened the door and said, "Hey, bro, how is the hot shot artist doing? I wouldn't get too comfortable being the golden boy; you just got a twelve-year head-start." He did a double-take and looked at Morris, once so athletic and vivacious, now gaunt and stock-still. "Wait, you're really sick. You should be in the hospital!"

"A hospital can't do anything for me, Donny. I'm dying."

"What? It's pneumonia, not cancer."

"It's worse than cancer. Donny, I have AIDS."

"What? No, you couldn't." He looked away. "You couldn't..."

He removed Smithers' class ring and handed it to him. "Tell Waylon I still love him. Please. Mom and Dad won't let me see him." He handed Donny his address book, opened to the page with Waylon's last known contact information. "Take care of that ring, and give it back to Waylon. I don't want Mom and Dad to take it."

Turning the ring around in his fingers and reading the inscription, he said, "So Waylon was your... then why isn't he taking care of you?"

"We broke up years ago. He doesn't know I'm sick. But he was my first love."

"Yes, of course. I'll bring him here right away."

"Don't bring him while Dad is here. But start looking for him now. He's not at this number right now. Start by asking Mr. Burns."

He gulped. "Yes, Morris. Of course. Hang in there," he said, backing out of the room. From upstairs, Morris could hear him scream at their parents, "How could you not tell me he was so sick?"

* * *

As Mr. Burns handed his letter to Smithers to the post office worker, Donny approached from behind and tapped on his shoulder. "Ah! Smithers, get this brute away –" Force of habit. "What do you want?"

"You're Mr. Burns, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Finally! I've tried so hard to get a hold of you, but your number is unlisted and your secretary kept putting me on hold."

"Did it ever occur to you that my telephone number might be unlisted for a reason? So that fatuous fools such as you wouldn't pester me with inane chatter? Who are you, anyway?"

"I need to talk to Waylon Smithers."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I'm Morris' little brother. It's urgent."

"He's being held at Springfield Penitentiary. I was just mailing my letter to him now."

"What did he do to end up there?"

"He took the fall to spare a friend. He's a stand-up guy. Not a soul more loyal."

"Thank you." He wrote a quick note and then handed Morris' letter to the postal worker.

* * *

Two letters came for Smithers from the prison mailroom that Wednesday afternoon. He had not received any letters besides those from Burns, so he received this new letter with a tingle of anticipation. He settled the nervous tension by looking at the return address.

 _Morris Yackey._

He grinned, head swimming in elation. Finally! A letter from the other love of his life. What an exciting life he must have been leading! His silence over the years was surely because he'd been too busy, having too much fun to think of the man who left him for a dream a decade ago.

He opened the envelope and saw that in addition to the primary letter was a hurriedly scrawled note reading: "Waylon – Morris didn't know you're in prison when he wrote this. Mr. Burns told me you were innocent, and I'll tell that to Morris."

 _Dear Waylon:_

 _First, mail your responses to Donny, not to me, and don't use your real name on the envelope. My parents check all my mail and don't let me see most of it. Okay, now for the real letter._

 _I really enjoyed the time we spent together. You were a bright spark in my life, and I hope you have found a happiness with Monty that you could not find with me. I wish I could have talked to you on the phone if not in person, but I don't know whether this letter will reach you before I die. You see, I have AIDS and don't have much time left. Please, tell me you aren't sick, too. I don't know that I could handle that._

 _I've had a couple of boyfriends since we were together, but they weren't very good to me. Not like what we had. After the honeymoon period, I found out Victor was abusive and controlling. He didn't want me contacting you at all. At least when I was diagnosed, he had the decency to leave me. You're the last man I really connected with, so I wish you could be here with me before I shuffle off this mortal coil. I would love to see you again before I go, but my parents have prevented me from looking for you or contacting any of my old friends. They are deeply ashamed of me, and they're afraid people will find out I'm gay._

 _I flew back here from New York when they offered to take care of me here because I thought I would be better off here – I thought I would have the chance to see you one last time. They only let me come back on the condition I repented my 'sins of homosexual depravity' and acknowledged my disease as a divine punishment. I resisted as long as I could, but I couldn't reach you on the phone, and I thought I'd be able to get in touch with you. I tried calling you, but you were never there. My mother took the phone out of my room, so don't bother calling. In retrospect, I should have come back much sooner, when I was still well enough to get around. And now, I'm isolated from everyone who's cared about me, except my little brother, Donny, who just got back from college. At least I get to see him again. But I care about you, still._

 _I hope you don't think it's creepy, but for the last year, I've been wearing your ring on my left ring finger. You really are the love of my life, just as Monty is the love of yours. I hope you know and he knows just how special you are._

 _Remember that summer we saw_ Jaws _at the drive-in, and you hugged me for the whole movie, even though we were near the front and people could see? I cherish that memory, how comforted and loved you made me feel, and I think about it a lot these days. Whenever I'm feeling scared and alone, which is a lot these days, I think of that, and I feel happy. I don't know why that night stands out to me. There were lots of times you hugged me. But for some reason, it does._

 _While our separation was mostly your decision, I'm sorry for the way I acted. I was so jealous, I forgot how much I loved you, and I yelled at you as if you were a disobedient child instead of the vibrant, independent soul you are. There is so much I would have done differently in my life, things I would change if I could do it all again, but every permutation of my imagined life includes you._

 _I don't know what else to tell you. Just know that my last thoughts will be of you._

 _With Love Unending, Morris_

He held the letter close to his chest and sobbed.

* * *

 _Dear Morris:_

 _Your letter left me speechless. Wordless and letter-less, even. I can only write this now because the ticking of the clock maddens me with the fear that the words I need to find won't reach you in time. I can't adequately describe the way your news has stricken me. I cried myself to sleep last night. My cellmate has stolen a look at your letter to me and spread the word that I'm gay, and now they beat me just a bit more than before. At least they are too fearful to rape me._

 _Good Lord, that sounds awful, as if your illness is some saving grace of mine. But listen, I would rather them rape me a hundred times over if it could spare you. I've heard the guards talk about putting me in protective custody, but Springfield Penitentiary is too small to be equipped with a dedicated ward, so they'll probably put me in solitary instead._

 _Speaking of which, I should allay your fears – no, I've not been sick, and I'm not going to be anytime soon. I got tested through the prison doctor a few months ago, and I just got the results back Wednesday. Same day as your letter arrived. Bittersweet news if ever there was._

 _It wounds me that your parents have isolated and demeaned you this way. Wounds me and infuriates me. You have always believed they were essentially good people who just needed time to adjust, but as they say, crisis brings out the best and the worst in people, and I sincerely hope this isn't their best._

 _I would give anything to hold you once more. I can't help but feel riddled with guilt that this is my fault, that had we stayed together, none of this would've happened, and we'd both be much happier. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I know you'll only reassure me that's not the case, but it's undeniable, and I'm not the one who needs reassuring now, anyway._

 _I have tried to reach you on the phone, but I could never get through. I should have put more effort into finding you. When you came back to Springfield five years ago, I should have tried harder to convince you to leave Vic for me. I should have never let you go. I should have held on and never let go. I didn't, and now all I have left is the sewage leaking from the pipe dreams I used to seriously entertain as a young man brimming with optimism and naïveté._

 _But enough about me. I want you to tell me everything. Where you've been, what you've been doing, everything. I can't wait to see you. I'm doing everything I can to get out of here and see you so I can comfort you in person. I requested a consultation with my lawyer as soon as I got your letter, and Mr. Burns has his lawyers working overtime to spring me from here. They're trying to get my conviction overturned by proving I made a false confession. I'm confident it'll be overturned, since it's true my confession was false. I only hope it happens in time for me to see you._

 _I don't think it's creepy you're wearing my ring. I'm glad you still care about me, and I still care about you. I'm glad it's given you some comfort. If I were permitted to wear the ring you gave me, I would. They do permit me to wear my wedding ring. I think of it as a symbol of my love for you instead of for my wife. I still love you, as much as I ever did, and I am thinking of you always._

 _Lovingly Yours, Waylon_

He pled desperately with his legal counsel for a temporary compassionate release, although such a thing had never been granted for a prisoner who wasn't himself terminally ill. He told about how his best friend was dying, too sick to come and visit, and he needed to get out of there, right away. "I promise," he'd said in a statement to the judge, "There is a duty that I'm sworn to do, to take care of my artist friend. And then I'll return, I pledge my word, then I'll return and even serve double the time I have left, just let me see him..."

In his next letter, Morris had enclosed a copy of the most famous soliloquy of Hamlet, a page torn from a book, occasionally marked up with underlines and emendations.

 _To be, or not to be – that is the question: **fate has posed and answered for me**_

 _Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

 _The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_

 _Or to take arms against a sea of troubles_

 _And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep –_

 _No more – and by a sleep to say we end_

 _The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks_

 _That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation_

 _Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep –_

 _To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,_

 _For in that sleep of death what dreams may come_

 _When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,_

 _Must give us pause. There's the respect_

 _That makes calamity of so long life._

 _For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,_

 _Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely_

 _The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,_

 _The insolence of office, and the spurns_

 _That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,_

 _When he himself might his quietus make_

 _With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,_

 _To grunt and sweat under a weary life,_

 _But that the dread of something after death,_

 _The undiscovered country, from whose bourn_

 _No traveller returns, puzzles the will,_

 _And makes us rather bear those ills we have_

 _Than fly to others that we know not of?_

 _Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,_

 _And thus the native hue of resolution_

 _Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,_

 _And enterprise of great pitch and moment_

 _With this regard their currents turn awry_

 _And lose the name of action. – Soft you now,_

 _The fair -O-p-h-e-l-i-a-!- **Waylon**! – -N-y-m-p-h- **Adonis** , in thy orisons_

 _Be all my -s-i-n-s- **aims** remembered._

– _William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene I_

 _Dear Waylon:_

 _I'm so relieved to hear you're healthy. It's been weighing on me for months, so I understand the guilt you're feeling, but just as you predicted I would, I am going to reassure you: this isn't your fault. This isn't anyone's fault. This is just the hand I've been dealt. And you do need reassuring, too. Can you forgive yourself for me? I don't want to think of you sitting alone in a dank cell, blaming yourself for all kinds of things you had no way of knowing to prevent. You regret some of your actions, okay. I regret some of my actions, too. That doesn't mean we were doing wrong. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. And I don't want you to miss out on life. Even when you left me, you acted out of love for me, knowing I was not content to be the one you settled for in case things didn't pan out with Monty._

 _How is he, anyway? I hope he realizes how truly lucky he is to have your loyalty, love, and devotion. Few men would accept going to prison for potentially decades to spare the object of his affection. Yes, I know it was him you did it for. Who else would you have done this for? Your undying loyalty is one of your admirable qualities, although sometimes I wish it weren't._

 _Speaking of Monty, have you made it with him yet? Don't be shy, now. As much as I still love you, I accepted years ago that our paths diverged, and I know your heart is big enough for both of us. And I want you to be happy, so please, be happy with him. If you ever need a reference, I'd be happy to provide a stellar recommendation of your skill in satisfying carnal desires. He'd be a fool to reject you._

 _I've been thinking a lot about mortality lately (no duh), and I've been reading this passage from Hamlet over and over. I've decided that whatever the undiscovered country is like, if there is such a place, what matters is that I was able to add beauty to this world, through my paintings and through my love for you. No, I'm not thinking of taking my own life just because I quoted Hamlet contemplating suicide (I know how you think, worrywart). I still hope to see you. As long as you remember the aims of my life in your orisons, 'tis a consummation not devoutly to be wished, but to be submitted to with equanimity. Yes, I fear. But with you fearing with me, I fear more calmly._

 _With Consummate Devotion, Morris_

 _P.S. – Don't give up on pipe dreams just yet. Being an artist was a pipe dream of mine, but you made me believe in it, and it wouldn't have come true without your encouragement._

 _Dear Morris:_

 _You always bring a smile to my face. Even in such dire times as these, you make me laugh ("no duh," "worrywart," etc.) I'm so glad to see your personality shine through even now. You gave me some of the best times of my life, and I feel a persistent itch to touch, to kiss, to hold you once again. You showed me how to be myself. I guess it's not obvious, since I've done my damnedest to bury who I am the last five years, to live up to that counterfeit ideal, but in my head, I know myself, even if I don't show it, and I didn't know myself before I knew you._

 _I'm afraid Mr. Burns won't ever reciprocate my adoration of him. Still, I've invested so much time in pursuing him, time I could've spent with you – I don't want that to have all been for nothing._

 _I don't know. The man confuses me as much as he entices me. I frequently get the impression that he is attracted to me but is holding himself back. When we start to get close, physically or emotionally, he'll suddenly recoil. It's as if he knows where I want things to go, and it scares him, but I don't yet know whether it scares him because he doesn't want it or it scares him because he_ does _want it. He came of age in much less tolerant times, and his desire for women is genuine, so he has strong motivation to suppress his gay side in favor of exclusively pursuing women._

 _So, how should I deliver your recommendation? Have you type up a letter of recommendation praising me in pornographic detail and fax it to his office desk? Perhaps I should sit him down and say, "Mr. Burns, my college lover says I give great head; do you want to drop your pants and check my reference?"_

 _As for everything else in my life? There's so much to tell you, but nothing really to say. I joined the Navy. I got discharged from the Navy. They found out I'd been painting sailors nude. And sleeping with them. I married my high school girlfriend. Oh, wait, you already knew that, didn't you? Well, I didn't tell you the part about the naked sailors when we last spoke. Things have been rocky with my wife. I always loved her as a friend, but marriage has wrought havoc on our friendship. I resent her constantly for not being you, for not being Mr. Burns. It's irrational; I'm the one who chose this, not her, but still, I see her in my bed where you should be, and anger flashes in my eyes. I guess it's myself I'm really angry at. In that respect, prison has not been so bad, as it gives me an escape from confronting the situation. I'm going to have to be honest with her once I get out, though. I can't continue to hide the truth forever. I've learned that much from you._

 _I miss you so much. I miss you, miss you, miss you, miss you... I want to kiss you, kiss you, kiss you, kiss you... I still cry myself to sleep. I still fear with you, and I will keep fearing with you._

 _And I wrote you this sonnet last night:_

 _Should we look back on days that since expired_

 _With mournful eyes and tears of dread that hang_

 _In somber air, the breath of workmen tired_

 _By noonday sun who slept while sirens sang?_

 _Should we look back on nights we once rejoiced_

 _To live in sweet embrace of lights? You lit_

 _The flame, the fire, each hopeless dream we'd foist_

 _On moulds of shapes we thought we ought to fit._

 _If all days end then mine are yours 'til then,_

 _As now is then and then is now, for all._

 _In each repast, we shared a dream or ten:_

 _Eternal love will push this stony squall_

 _Across the stars and seas and every glen,_

 _As comets sail, illuminate the pall._

 _And as long as we're quoting Hamlet:_

" _Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love."_

– _Waylon_

He exchanged letters with Morris in the ensuing weeks. They wrote about events in their lives from the last ten years – the funny, the heartbreaking, the exhilarating, the mundane. After two weeks, he stopped getting letters from Morris. Instead, he got updates written by Donny, as Morris had gotten too sick to write and too sick to dictate messages longer than short sentences, though these direct messages would pepper the updates. Donny wrote how Morris requested him to sit by him and read Waylon's letters over and over, and that it was one of the few things to bring a smile to his face.

Three weeks from the arrival of the first letter, on a Monday morning, he was released, and he drove straight to Morris' house. He knocked on the door, and Mrs. Yackey pulled the curtains open a bit to see who was there, then shut them and let him stand there, knocking. "Please, for the love of God, let me see him!"

A minute passed, and the door opened.

"Donny, thank you!" he said, running past him and up the stairs to Morris' room, past his mother who stood there in gloves and gown, where he knelt beside the bed and held Morris' hand between his. "Morris..."

"Waylon...?" His breathing was labored.

"Yes, it's me. I'm here for you." He kissed the back of his hand. "What can I do for you? Tell me what I can do."

"Stay."

"I'll do you one better." He crawled into bed with him and kissed him deeply. "If I had the chance to do it all again, I would never have left you." He kissed his lips again, then stroked his neck as he looked into his distant eyes. "I love you, Morris."

Mrs. Yackey pulled him back by the shoulder and said, "Get the hell away from my son."

Donny pulled her away. "He's dying, Mom! Can't you see that and shut the hell up while his lover says goodbye?"

"That _lover_ killed Morris!"

"If you don't pipe down, I'm locking you out of his room," said Donny.

"How dare you speak to me that way?"

"No, you shut up! You've kept him cloistered up here all these months; he deserves to see his lover." She began to yell in protest, and Donny locked her out of the room, only letting her in again when she promised to be silent save words of encouragement and endearment.

Waylon removed his wedding ring and slipped it over Morris' finger, the ring hanging loosely around the digit. "I figured it's time I gave you a proper wedding ring." He put Morris' class ring back on his own finger, replacing his wedding band. "My life is better because you were in it. I'll never forget you." He lay with him for hours, holding him and kissing him between spates of tears.

"Don't cry," he said, trying to crack a smile but not quite making it. "I want to... remember... you happy."

He mustered a smile. "Yeah. That's it. Let's remember the good times. The way we were. Remember when we took your Porsche out to Inspiration Point and we took the top down and made love under the stars? Your face looked so astonishingly beautiful bathed in moonlight. Remember when we were fishing in a little boat on Lake Springfield, and I sang softly in your ear so I wouldn't spook the fish? Remember when we'd go dancing at Joe's after your shift at the museum? Remember the day we met? I acted like such a fool. It was so obvious I was attracted to you, anyone could see it but me. Well, it's a good thing you saw it and invited me to make love to you, because that was the night that changed my whole life. Thank you for showing me something so beautiful and letting me have it, even if just for a little while."

"He wanted me to give you this back," said Donny, outstretching his hand and revealing Waylon's class ring in his palm.

He wordlessly took it, then slipped it onto Morris' left ring finger alongside the wedding band and kissed the adjacent knuckle. As Morris' breathing grew increasingly labored and his eyes grew decreasingly responsive, he kissed along his cheek, his hand, while Donny held his other hand and touched his other cheek.

And there they stayed.


	30. Chapter 30

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Chapter Thirty**

Author Note: Leave it to me to turn something as hilarious as The Simpsons into something so depressing.

* * *

Waylon did not know how he had managed to drive himself to work that Tuesday morning, but he found himself in his usual parking space nevertheless. He couldn't recall the road or any of his commute, only the whirlwind of guilt and doubt and regret and sorrow and longing. _If we had stayed together, he'd still be alive. We could've grown old together. I traded his life to work for Mr. Burns. And for what? He acts so aloof, so much more than he did ten years ago. I traded a man who loves me for a man who sees me as a tool. I missed out on months I could've spent with the man who loves me to sit in prison for the man who uses me. I deserted him to chase a man I'll never have._

"Smithers!" said Mr. Burns as Smithers tromped to his office. "Why did you not come to work yesterday? I specifically requested they release you early in the morning so you could arrive at work on time."

"Morris died of pneumonia last night." He cupped his hands over his glasses and cried for a moment before sniffling and wiping the tears away. "I was with him his last few hours."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Well, as long as you don't miss any more time."

"About that, sir. The funeral is tomorrow, and I'd like the day off."

"No."

He looked incredulously at him. "No?"

"No."

His incredulity morphed into disgust. "How could you say that?"

"Do you know how much productivity we'd lose if everyone took a day off when someone they knew died? I'm only required to give time off for deaths in the immediate family, and it's in a business' interests to not do more than the law stipulates. Grieve on your own time."

He looked away. "I never understood how so many people, my own mother even, saw you as some kind of monster. But now I know. Where's the Mr. Burns I fell... felt such admiration for?"

"I didn't miss a day when your father died; why should I grant you time off for some college friend of yours?"

"He wasn't some casual drinking buddy; he was the most important person in my life!"

" _Was_ , not _is_. And the sooner you get used to that and move on, the better."

"You're the reason he's dead!"

"That's absurd! I couldn't possibly, not since my germ warfare lab was sabotaged almost twenty years ago."

"If I'd moved to New York, left my job here, he'd still be alive! But you had to take me to Broadway, to the Roseland, to Washington Square Park! Then you turned cold as ice to me without even explaining why. I deserve an explanation, Monty! Why did he have to die? What was the point in staying in Springfield with you? You've ruined my life; I – I hate you!"

"Bereavement has addled your senses, Waylon."

"Or maybe they were addled before, and I've finally gotten some sense knocked into me." He walked down the hall to an exit.

"Smithers!" he called out, but Smithers didn't flinch. Then, as the door swung shut behind him, Burns said faintly, "Smithers..."

The next day, Smithers stepped into Mr. Burns' office dressed in black formal attire. "Sir? I'm leaving, now. I'm going to Morris' funeral." They stood in silence. "Sir?"

Burns swiveled away from him in his chair and waved him off. "Then go. You are free to do as you wish. Just know your insolence won't go unpunished."

"I know you're not this callous. Not to _me_. I know you don't want to be soft in front of the other employees who'd just take advantage of your generosity. But if you don't come to apologize to me and retroactively grant me your blessing to take the time off, I'll never come back. I hope to see you again, Monty. You know where I live."

* * *

Waylon walked up the grassy hill to the mourners sitting before the grave about to be filled and sat beside Donny as Reverend Lovejoy stood before them in the shade of a towering elm tree, cleared his throat, and said, "We are gathered here to remember the life of Morris Yackey, a beloved son, brother, and friend, an artist, athlete, and actor, and even though his life was tragically cut short at the age of 33, he managed to enrich many others' with his paintings and his graceful presence in their lives. His burgeoning career as a painter in New York filled him and his loved ones with hopes for a bright future..."

Mr. Yackey, on the other side of Donny, glared at him, but Waylon kept his eyes fixed on the casket. Mr. Yackey leaned past Donny and whispered, "Who invited you?"

Donny said, "I did."

Mr. Yackey shot his son a dirty look, then said to Waylon, "Don't you dare make a peep about the way he was."

Gazing still at the casket, Waylon said low, with a firm, embittered resolve, "I won't say a word."

"...Let us give a silent prayer for his soul, may he rest in peace." They bowed their heads, eyes closed, hearing nothing but a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the trees above and the mirthful melody of sparrows on the branches. "Now, I invite you to each walk to him and pay your final respects." One by one, they walked to the casket, each tossing a white lily before him. Waylon remained seated until all had gone to him, then he stood, clutching a bouquet of red chrysanthemums to his chest as he stepped closer. Once the tips of his shoes reached the edge of the fallen flowers, he bent at the knees and crouched down to lay the bouquet on top of the pile. As he began to rise again, his knees gave way, and he fell to the ground, kneeling, hands caressing the soft blanket of lily petals as he bent his head down, nose brushing against chrysanthemums, and wept with abandon. All others save Donny increased their distance from him. They were silent and knew but would never say the reason for the depth of his sorrow.

Donny, standing alone in front of his friends and family, burst into tears and approached the casket, kneeling to the ground and catching Waylon in a firm embrace, and they rocked slightly side to side as they shed tears on each other's shoulders.

* * *

"I've missed you all these long and lonely months." Cheryl lay seductively on the bed that Wednesday evening.

He hobbled on his crutch to the dresser and downed a shot of whiskey, then poured another. He'd injured his leg kicking the exterior walls of the nuclear plant in a fit of impotent rage after he'd left the funeral. "Well, it looks like you've found me."

"Touch me, Waylon."

"I'm not in the mood."

"You always say that. I want to know why."

"I don't want to discuss it."

"I want to feel _something_. But you don't feel anything!"

"If only that were true," he said, downing another shot of whiskey.

"Come on, Waylon. Make love to me the way you used to."

"No."

"It's that horrible Mr. Burns, isn't it?"

"You leave Mr. Burns out of this!"

"Smithers! Smiiiithers!"

"Mr. Burns!" He rushed down the stairs to see Burns standing at the foot, wearing a shirt a size too big and the sleeve slid down over his shoulder. "You came."

"How are you holding up?"

"Not very well, sir."

Glancing at his crutch and smelling the liquor on his breath, he said, "I see."

"Tell me why you came."

"I came to tell you I lied to you. I know what you're going through, and there is no such thing as 'moving on.' That pain will be with you for the rest of your life."

"You couldn't possibly know what I'm going through."

"Like hell I couldn't. I went through it with your father."

"That's completely different!"

"No, it's not. There is no one I've cared more for than your father."

"He'd still be alive if I'd... if I'd... stayed by his side. Been a true friend."

"There's no profit to that kind of thinking. Trust me, I've gone down that road hundreds of times."

"It really is my fault, though! If only I'd been a better... friend, he'd still be here. I was neglecting him because I was so intent on serving you. He only died because I let him go..."

Speaking more to himself, he said, "He chose to go. Maybe your actions played a part in him needing to, but it was his choice."

"Don't you dare blame him! He had the purest heart of anyone I've ever known. What we had was good, too good for me. I cut him loose to work for you, and now he's dead! And he wouldn't be if I'd just been the loyal accountant friend he always believed I was."

"Now you're just wallowing in self-pity. Listen carefully, Waylon: you didn't kill Morris. A lung infection killed him."

"I should've been here when he called for me. Not in Springfield Penitentiary! We should've spent months together. I should've been here and taken care of him. Instead, he wasted away, alone."

"I know you're in hell now, but trust me. It will get better."

"I watched him die right in front of me! Do you know what it's like, to watch your dearest companion take his agonizing last breaths?" He grabbed Burns' shirt by the sleeves, then gradually loosened his grip, hands sliding away. "I held him, lifeless, in my arms."

Burns clasped his palm around the back of Smithers' neck, gazed dolefully into his eyes, then gently guided Smithers' chin onto his shoulder, slid his hand down Smithers' back, and held him tightly in both arms. And for ten minutes, they sat there, feeling each other's heart beat against his chest and taking turns crying into each other's shoulders and comforting the other. "The pain won't ever leave you. But you will find other people who ease it."

"I already have, sir."

"What's wrong, Waylon?" said Cheryl, peeking her head out the door and making her way down the stair.

"His college friend died."

"Oh, dear, was it Lou?"

"No," said Mr. Burns. "It was Morris."

"Morris? Who's Morris?"

Mr. Burns raised an eyebrow. "You mean you didn't know him?"

"No, Waylon never mentioned him."

"I thought you said he was your best friend."

"He was my closest friend. My artist friend."

Cheryl said, "Why didn't you ever mention him?"

"Monty, I think it's best if you –"

"Yes, yes. I'll take my leave." He opened the door. "Keep your pecker up, Waylon." The door shut behind him.

Morris' ring on Waylon's finger caught her eye. "What ring is that?"

"It's a Springfield University class ring."

She brought his finger close to her eye to inspect it. "It says 1974."

"It does."

"But you're the class of '76."

"I am."

"Then why does it –"

"It's a typo, okay! Will you stop interrogating me?"

"Where's your wedding ring?" As he failed to venture a reply, she said, more insistently, "Where is it, Waylon?"

"Six feet under!"

"Morris. You gave him your ring? Is that why you never mentioned him?" Not getting a response, she said, "You had an unnatural relationship with him, didn't you?"

"There was nothing unnatural about it!" He stroked the ring in a desperate bid to feel close to him again, his eyes shut as tears slipped out. "He was my lover."

Her eyes went wide, and she clutched at the wall to steady herself, then fell back into a nearby chair. Staring straight out into space, her face petrified, she said, "What did he die of?"

"Pneumonia. It was a complication..." he said, taking a swig of whiskey, "...of AIDS."

"Oh, God." She brought her face down to her hands. "What have you done to me?"

"I haven't done anything to you!"

"Like hell you haven't!" she said, standing and slapping him as she screamed, "Selfish bastard!"

He pushed her away with his crutch, propelling her back onto the chair. "Shut the hell up!" He took a gulp of whiskey. "For your information, I haven't slept with Morris in nine years. I've been celibate for the last four years, not counting you. Which I don't."

"But you still could've –"

"I didn't." He took more whiskey. "I got tested a couple months ago through the prison doctor. The results came back last month."

"Did you touch him?" He looked away. "Did you _touch_ him?"

"I kissed him goodbye."

"What were you thinking?"

"That here was a man, a man I loved, dying before my eyes, alone. There was never a question in my mind."

"How could you be so reckless with your safety? With mine?"

"I wasn't thinking about you at all. Get that through your head. I only thought of him!"

"How could you trample on all those beautiful days we had, our hopes and dreams we once shared, the –"

"Lies! It's all lies! Now, you listen to me: I don't love you; I never loved you! But this isn't even about you. It's about how _I_ failed him. I _failed_ him. Do you understand that? If I hadn't left him to pursue Mr. Burns, he never would've gotten sick, and _he'd_ be the one sleeping under those sheets with me night after night, filling my days with love, and, and everything beautiful, painting his dreams and then _living_ them! Really living them. And I'd live them with him. _Him_ , Cheryl, not you!"

"You cared more for a diseased deviant than for me."

"Shut your damn mouth, you fucking bitch!" He broke down crying, tripped over his crutch, and fell to his knees. "He didn't do anything wrong... He was the nicest man you'd ever meet. He didn't deserve this..." He wrapped his arms around her ankles in a desperate embrace.

She stepped back in a sharp recoil. "I don't want you touching me."

"Good. I'm glad you think I'm contagious. At least you'll finally stop pestering me for sex."

"Obviously you only think about what's good for you, not about me at all."

"Figured that out already?" He stood, brushing off his pants and stumbling before fully standing, and even then, he wobbled like a top gradually slowing to a standstill.

"So you never loved me?"

He took a swig of whiskey. "Nope."

"You just used me as a prop, strung me along all these years, so people wouldn't know you're gay?"

He slowly nodded his head, looking upward out the corner of his eye in contemplation, and said, "Yeah, pretty much." She began to cry. "What do _you_ have to cry about? I'm the one who lost a man I loved. The man you fell in love with is still standing right here in front of you, so what are _you_ crying about?"

"I don't know where the man I fell in love with went, but you aren't him."

"That's right. What you fell in love with was nothing but a – a mask. And I'm goddamned tired of wearing it."

"I'm leaving you, Waylon."

"Good! I've had it with this charade! If I want to play charades, I'll go to a – a party."

"You were right all those years ago. You should've broken up with me before we made love the first time."

"We never made love." He threw back the last of his whiskey. "But yeah, I should've. But what the fuck did I know? I was just a kid. We were both kids."

"I'm going to pack my things, then I'm going to stay with my parents."

"Good, good."

She came down a bit later with suitcases. "I've boxed up most of my other belongings. Don't you touch them. I'll pick up the rest tomorrow."

"Good, good."

"Don't you want to say anything else?"

"No. I don't."

"I do. In spite of everything, I still can't stop loving you."

"Wouldn't it be funny if that was true?"

"I don't want to hear you drank yourself to death here. Be careful."

"A tall order for a raving drunk."

"Just, for God's sake, look after yourself." She stepped into the threshold, then, without turning back, said, "Goodbye, Waylon."

"Wait." She turned back to face him. "There is one thing I want to say." He looked first to her feet, then directly into her eyes. "I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Sniffling away a tear, she said, "Maybe someday."


	31. Chapter 31

**This Is Your Strife**

 **Epilogue**

Waylon stood at Morris' grave and gently laid down a bouquet of red chrysanthemums and planted a miniature rainbow flag. "Happy Pride, Morris. You always loved to celebrate it. You taught me to celebrate it. It's hard to believe it's been almost fifteen years since you died, and it still hurts. I wonder sometimes what your life would have been like. All the things you could've accomplished. You were right, Monty," he said, turning back to Burns. "People leave you, but the pain never does."

He rubbed Smithers' shoulder. "He seemed like a nice man. Special."

Smithers closed his hand over Burns'. "Even now, sometimes I get overwhelmed with guilt."

"I understand. There are days I think of nothing but how your father should be alive, and it's my fault he isn't. I should have checked to ensure the proper man was assigned the reactor repair. It was an outcome I should have been able to foresee. But you couldn't foresee this. No man could have." Burns hugged him.

"Thank you. And my father's death wasn't your fault. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Even people better than we are."

"Your father was certainly much more good than I. Then again, every lover of mine has been more good than I. Most of them were too good for me to ultimately be happy with them."

"I'm not too good, am I?"

"No, Waylon. You're just good enough."

"Those are the sweetest words I've ever heard."

"Look at the two of us. It's a bright, beautiful day in June, and here we're standing, maudlin over our lost loves. Let's go do something fun."

"To mourn them?"

"If it were you in that plot, you'd want him to enjoy the years you didn't get to."

"You're right." He kissed Burns' forehead and mussed the hair on the back of his head, then held his hand. "Let's go for a bike ride."

They rode tandem, Burns pedaling in his feeble fashion, but pedaling all the same, as he wrapped his arms around Smithers' torso. He kissed him behind his ear, for the first time shedding his last shred of unease at expressing affection for a man – for this man.

They rode through Springfield Park, and after they had gone around a few times, Burns said, "Stop by that pond." As their bike skidded to a stop, Burns stood and snapped his fingers. As he did so, a series of maids and butlers emerged from behind the bushes and laid out a picnic blanket, a basket filled to the brim with fresh fruit and fancy cheeses, a seat cushion, a bottle of wine, and two wine glasses."Sit down."

"You set up a surprise picnic? For me?"

As he sat upon the seat cushion and poured some wine into a glass, he said, "No. Not for you." He handed the glass to Smithers. "For us." Smithers poured him a glass of wine, and they fed each other grapes and cheese cubes and cherries, each teasing the other's lips with the caress and tickle of fingertips with each sumptuous bite. Once they'd had their fill, they griped about shiftless and impertinent employees and gleefully plotted creative ways to punish both indolence and insolence.

They returned to the manor, and Smithers went to his Malibu Stacy display room to rearrange the dolls, centering the one Burns had given him over thirty years earlier beneath a spotlight he had recently set up. Standing at the doorway, Burns said, "Waylon?"

He turned back, his lips curving up in a smile. "Yes, Monty?"

"Are you really going to end our date this early?" he said with an indignant insistence.

He simply shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it." Smithers went to him, took his hands in his, then bowed his head to kiss the backs of Burns' hands. "Just tell me what you want to do, and we'll do it."

"I want to take in a movie."

He puckered his lips against Burns' knuckles, kissing him loudly and dryly. "You've got it." They each slid one hand away but kept one hand in the other's as they walked toward the door. "What do you want to see?"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever is playing at the drive-in."

They went inside the garage and each knew without even looking at the other which car they were going to take.

They arrived at the Springfield Drive-In in a rose-colored 1949 Cadillac Convertible for a showing of _At Long Last Love_ , Burns directing Smithers to cut sharply in front of the other cars. Smithers put his arm around Burns' shoulders, then Burns lowered the top and wrapped his arms around him and held him throughout the entire film. As the film came to a close, Burns slid his hand up his back, then swiftly pulled him by his neck and kissed him with all the tenderness and passion of hearts newly unchained.

Once released from the kiss, Smithers slowly leaned in and kissed him, less fiercely passionate and more dotingly soft, basking in the joy of doing the one thing guaranteed to lift the scowl off his eyes.

* * *

"So, that's the background behind this," said Smithers. Then, turning to Grady, he said, "Are you ready to go?"

"Just got your last box in the car," he said. "So, do you want to go drop it off at the mansion now, or wait until after the opening?"

"Let's wait until after the opening."

They drove to the Springfield Palace of Fine Arts. In front of the building, Waylon caught sight of a tall man with brown hair standing by the door. "Donny!" He shook his hand with both of his. "How was your flight from Chicago?"

"It went smoothly."

"I'm so glad you could make it. And thank you so much for your contribution."

"It was the least I could do."

"And I don't just mean the money. I mean the other paintings."

"God, I can't believe Mom and Dad were going to incinerate them. You weren't even nude."

"Thank you for saving them." He smiled a restrained smile and looked to the floor. "Come inside. Get in before it officially opens."

Donny followed him inside, and they walked past the Burns Wing to the newest wing of the museum and looked at various paintings of Morris' they'd bought from art collectors and galleries.

"Ooh, this one's one of my favorites," he said, gesturing to a vivid painting of a man playing guitar on a street corner, musical vibrations flowing out of the mouth of the guitar. "I just love what he does with color." He winced. "What he did with color."

"You two looked so happy together," said Donny, looking at a domestic scene of Waylon and Morris in bed in the morning, wearing shorts and disheveled hair, looking playful and utterly in love. He looked to the photograph mounted on the wall beside it, the one Harry had taken that Morris had used for reference, depicting the same scene as the painting. "Was your life really like that, or was he just idealizing?"

"Well, obviously things weren't roses and sunshine 24/7, but yes, we were very happy together. And we loved each other. But..." He didn't know how to finish. _Yes, what we had was wonderful, but I greedily wanted even more, so I left him to a series of cruddy boyfriends and a slow death in isolation._ "...I just didn't know how to keep it together."

Mr. Burns came to his side and took his hand, their wedding rings clinking together, and rubbed his wrist briefly before leaning his head on his shoulder. They sat on a nearby bench, and Waylon leaned his head on Monty's. There they stayed as the opening ceremonies proceeded until it was time to dedicate the Morris Yackey wing of the museum. Waylon and Donny presented a portrait and a plaque, which they read aloud from in turns, concluding with Donny saying, "Morris Yackey was a promising young artist with a soul as beautiful as his paintings,"

and Waylon saying, "and Waylon Smithers, Jr. is proud to proclaim that he loved you dearly. 1952-1985."

Beside Morris' portrait and plaque, Mr. Burns unveiled a painting of Waylon Senior he'd commissioned from Marge Simpson, who gave an artist's statement, followed by Burns' recollections of his dear friend and would-be lover and Hattie Smithers' remembrance of him. Once she had finished speaking, she walked to Waylon and hugged him, cradling his neck and the base of his head in her hand, running her fingers through the short threads of hair and staring remorsefully into his eyes. "I'm so sorry..." she whispered. "I failed you, and I don't deserve to be your mother."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, though. I failed you..."

"Yes, you did fail me. But people constantly fail each other. What matters is that you came around."

She smiled slightly, nodded slightly, then turned to Burns. "Monty," she said, taking his hand. "Waylon." She took his hand, then held them, one on top of the other, between the palms of her own hands, and said, "You two have my blessing." She hugged them, one in each arm, then stepped away and said, "I'll leave you be, now."

Long after everyone else had left, Waylon and Monty sat still on the bench in front of the paintings of their lost loved ones, holding each other in consummate union of love at first sight and the slow burning flame.

* * *

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

I drew a great deal of inspiration from musicals and movies (particularly musicals, as I'm an aficionado of musical theatre). I tried to stay true to the time and place of various scenes, to avoid anachronisms and give a consistent feel of the time period, which required considerable research considering I only spent about a decade in the twentieth century.

For instance, the Stonewall Inn really was a Bagel Place shortly after it closed. The Anvil was notorious for being particularly shocking (see also John Waters' commentary on Homer's Phobia), little boys really were taken to psychiatrists to prevent them being gay or effeminate, the drinking age was lower than 21 in much of the country, and sadly, there were parents who were even worse to their children who had AIDS than I portrayed Morris' parents. Some people would not even let their child come home or outright stated that it was harder for them to learn their son was a "faggot" than to learn he was terminally ill. It is absolutely true: crisis brings out the best and the absolute worst in people.

 **References and Allusions:**

I'm not going to go through every single reference, but I wanted to point some of them out that are more germane or obscure. Most references I tried to make explicit their relationship to the plot instead of leaving them as hidden messages. So, either they are significant and I try to make that clear in the text, or they are obscure but inconsequential to the plot. Nevertheless, I did a lot of research into these things, so I wanted to append a concise guide to them to the end.

The inspiration behind using Morris as the name for Waylon's first boyfriend was the E.M. Forster novel _Maurice_ , which he wrote in 1913 but it was only published posthumously in 1971. For two years, the titular character has a committed relationship at college with a man named Clive, who nevertheless intends to enter a joyless marriage, much as Waylon chooses to marry (originally, he was going to leave Morris specifically to craft a heterosexual facade, but then I changed it to Burns coming between them, as he's the central focus in Waylon's life).

 **Chapters Three – Four:**

Waylon reads _The Giving Tree_ , a 1964 Shel Silverstein book about a tree that gives and gives and gives to a little boy as he grows up until the boy is an old man and the tree is reduced to a stump and the only thing left to give the man is a place to sit. People have interpreted it many ways, from considering it a positive example of selfless love to an abusive relationship between the man and the tree. Waylon, of course, would never use a tree in this manner, as he assures the tree in his yard. His future is to be more like the tree, and he sees his life through the lenses of both interpretations of the book as time goes on – his selfless love to Morris cuts him down by losing him, whereas his selfless love to Burns cuts him down by Burns' efforts to distance them. And yet, while both of his loves bring him great pain, they also fill his life with beauty and, ultimately, a happy ending.

 _James and the Giant Peach_ , the 1961 book by Roald Dahl, centers around an orphan boy mistreated by his aunts who has a wild, surreal adventure with sentient invertebrates. Obviously alluded to because of Waylon's escapist fantasies.

Unfortunately, it was and is a real thing to use behavior modification techniques to try to make feminine boys more masculine and prevent them from becoming gay by using token systems and even withholding parental affection when the boy behaved in a feminine manner. One such study was George "lifting his luggage" Rekers' 1970 The Sissy Boy Experiment. Sadly, the subject of that study, Kirk Murphy, took his life as an adult. Look up the article on CNN's website called "Therapy to change 'feminine' boy created a troubled man, family says." If you don't get the "lifting his luggage" reference, this asshole Rekers was years later caught with a male escort, and he gave the flimsy excuse that he'd hired him to lift his luggage (prompting a new sexual euphemism to enter the lexicon) despite being observed lifting his own luggage on that trip.

When one's son is "prancing around in dresses" as Waylon's stepfather puts it, the big fear is that he'll end up gay, and the worst kind of gay at that (even my liberal parents in the 1990s were derisive of butch lesbians and campy gay men). And unfortunately for Waylon, his father's early death fit in with their notion that his feminine interests and future homosexuality are pathological and rooted in disrupted father-son relationships, and it's easier to sell his mother on this course of treatment.

Mr. Burns is right that in the early part of the century, pink was considered a boys' color, as a diminutive for a warlike red, whereas blue was softer, calmer, daintier. Throughout much of human history, pink has not been a girls' color, either regarded as neutral or a boys' color depending on the time and place.

 **Chapter Five –**

The first line – "Don't you want to feel anything else?" – spoken by Waylon's first and only girlfriend, is a quote from A Chorus Line, when Greg, one of the dancers, relates how he realized he was gay while making out with a girl and realizing his answer was "No, I don't." This scene is referenced later when Smithers and Burns watch the premier performance of _A Chorus Line_ , and later again during the scene his marriage breaks up. The movies Waylon suggests they see, _Death in Venice_ and _Harold and Maude_ , both came out in 1971. _Death in Venice_ concerns a man's obsession with an adolescent boy, and _Harold and Maude_ is about a young man's relationship with an old woman approaching eighty. These allusions are self-explanatory. While offering Smithers wine at The Gilded Truffle, Mr. Burns says, "don't be shy," which is the name of a song Cat Stevens wrote specifically for _Harold and Maude._

After Waylon says as much as that there are times he wished he'd die, it draws Burns to not only express a rare bit of physical affection, but to tell him specifically not to let his bullies "cut [him] down." Like a tree. A giving tree. Get it? I'm oh, so clever... nah, that was just coincidence. You don't really think authors do _that_ much extensive metaphor-ing? Well, some probably do, particularly the pretentious ones, but most of my author friends have been amazed at all the things English professors imputed to their work that they never put there. Nothing wrong with making unintended connections, particularly if they increase your enjoyment of a work (I know I've made plenty of connections to things in Simpsons canon that were not intended), but let's not pretend that it's all part of the author's grand design. I think the audience wants to give the writers way more credit than we deserve, which I don't mind at all, as it makes my job easier.

 **Chapter Six –**

Self-explanatory allusions to June Cleaver and Margaret Anderson, and of course, Waylon had a poster of Ringo Starr. Something he can relate to Marge about years later.

 **Chapter Seven –**

When Mr. Burns first contemplates how he sees Smithers in a light more similar to his father now that he's older, he thinks to himself, _It's lovely, it's frightening._ This is a reference to a workshop version of the musical _Feeling Electric_ as it was known before it was revised and became the Tony Award-winning _Next to Normal_. It comes from a cut song called _Electricity_ , in which the loyal Dan is singing to his wife in a recollection of their wedding. It always reminds me of Smithers' devotion to Burns with lyrics like "In your eyes it's heat lightening, it's lovely, it's frightening / It stuns me and sears me, and roots me right here to this spot / It's all that I want, and all that I need, and all that I'm not," but I've thought it interesting to twist that dynamic on its head a bit – where Mr. Burns sees the young Smithers as something he craves yet cannot have, afraid that somehow his father is watching, disapproving. While he normally has no qualms about dating a much younger person (and his interests definitely skew young and always have – Lily Bancroft, Marge Simpson, Gloria...), this case is markedly different, as he was in love with his father. He pursued Marge's mother _after_ Marge had already rejected him, and while he was quite taken with Marge's mother, it was a whirlwind romance that lacked the decades-long history of his association with Waylon Smithers, Sr.

 **Chapter Eleven –**

Another musical reference – when his mother is about to pull out his beefcake magazines, he thinks to himself, _I'm totally fucked_. I thought of that particular phrasing as I'm enamored of the song _Totally Fucked_ from the musical _Spring Awakening_.

 _Young Physique_ was an actual publication, back when distributing porn was illegal or barely legal.

"You'd be much too distracting." This is something Cliff Bradshaw says to Sally Bowles when she first proposes moving in with him in the musical Cabaret. Incidentally, Cliff is bisexual.

 **Chapter Twelve –**

"One look at you, and I get hot pants." Morris says this to Waylon when they're about to consummate their attraction. It's a quote from Anything Goes – Reno Sweeney is attempting to seduce Lord Evelyn Oakleigh (a man, pronounced eve-lin) to get him caught in a compromising position, and she says this to him.

 **Chapter Thirteen –**

Lumbar Puncture is a reference to Spinal Tap, the fictional band featured in the eponymous mockumentary. Of course, the character's name is Harry, a nod to Harry Shearer who plays Burns and Smithers (and many others) and also was in Spinal Tap. Likewise, Hank is a reference to Hank Azaria, who played a flamboyant gay man in The Birdcage, and Nancy is a reference to Nancy Cartwright, who plays Bart (but the character I made up isn't based on her or her work).

Cinema City Music Hall is a reference to the Radio City Music Hall, of course.

 **Chapter Fifteen –**

"Now you're talking." Slight nod to Rent. Collins says this toward the beginning of the song Santa Fe, when he and Angel are fantasizing about leaving New York behind and opening a restaurant in Santa Fe where their "labors would reap financial gains." Of course, it's an extremely common phrase. By "slight nod," I mean that each time I read this line, I hear it in Jesse L. Martin's voice.

 **Chapter Twenty –**

"If I loved him... If I did love him... Well, I don't, so what's the use of wond'rin'?" references Carousel, specifically the songs "If I Loved You" and "What's the Use of Wond'rin'?" The latter fits Smithers' relationship with Burns quite well.

 **Chapter Twenty-Two –**

The scene with Burns showing Smithers his father's room in the hotel suite is a faithful parody of a scene in Hitchcock's 1940 film Rebecca. The original scene (look it up on Youtube with the words "Rebecca's bedroom Hitchcock") has significant lesbian subtext, as the characters in the film are both women.

When Smithers hears the magic words ("I love you"), the following paragraph consists solely of the word "Click." This references Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, in which Brick, inveterate alcoholic, says he drinks until he feels a click.

 **Chapter Twenty-Four –**

The name of the bicycle shop, I Like Bike, is obviously a reference to the famous slogan "I Like Ike!" for Eisenhower's presidential campaign.

When they are about to depart the bike shop, Mr. Burns references Walt Whitman's elegy for Abraham Lincoln called "O Captain! My Captain!"

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine –**

The underlined portions of the following line is from Jean Valjean in the musical Les Miserables:

"There is a duty that I'm sworn to do, to take care of my artist friend. And then I'll return, I pledge my word, then I'll return and even serve double the time I have left, just let me see him..."

Then in a letter, Morris advises Waylon to "Forget regret, or life is yours to miss." This is a line from Rent, sung by Mimi, who has AIDS.

This line in one of Waylon's letters: "itch to touch, to kiss, to hold you once again" is a quote from the song Left Behind in the musical Spring Awakening. It's a funeral scene.

The way I originally wrote the ending, Smithers didn't know Morris was sick until he had died and his brother tracked him down because his name was on the ring Morris had been wearing. It would've been really heart-wrenchingly poignant, but so is this, and I think they needed some more closure.

 **Chapter Thirty –**

The closing scene of this chapter is all a parody of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. In that play, Brick is an alcoholic wreck mourning his friend Skipper who was in love with him and who he rejected. I included the parody scene from Secrets of a Successful Marriage, which also parodied A Streetcar Named Desire, but took it a step further. If you haven't read or seen the play, do so (and no, the movie doesn't count; they heavily edited out the homosexual content). If you liked this chapter, you sure as shit will enjoy that play.

The line "In spite of everything, I still can't stop loving you" is from the 1961 Dirk Bogarde film _Victim_ , spoken by the wife of a gay lawyer who is tracking down blackmailers who are targeting gay men to extort. Excellent film, and Dirk Bogarde was himself gay. He also played the main guy in _Death in Venice_ , released ten years later in 1971. The line is followed by "Wouldn't it be funny if that was true?" which is a key line in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.


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